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EMILIA OF LINDINAU: 
 
 OB 
 
 THE FIELD OF LEIPSIC. 
 

u 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 In presenting this Poem to the Public, it is 
 not my intention to offer any apology for an 
 attempt which, however imperfect it may be 
 found, was prompted by the true and genuine 
 feelings of an Englishwoman. At a time 
 when sudden and mighty revolutions excited 
 universal wonder and dismay; when the war- 
 rior had bled, and the statesman toiled in 
 the cause of freedom; when the bravest of 
 a 2. 
 
VI PREFACE. 
 
 the sons of Europe, as if with one consent, 
 had risen to assert and defend those rights 
 and liberties so long insulted and trampled 
 upon by merciless tyranny; at such a time, I 
 repeat, she may surely hope for indulgence, 
 whom the warm impulse of national senti- 
 ment, and national feeling, has induced to 
 sketch some few features of scenes, worthy, 
 in point of natural and moral interest, to em- 
 ploy the pen of the most exalted genius. 
 
 The following tale was begun soon after 
 the events on which it is founded took place: 
 unfortunate domestic occurrences prevented 
 its completion at that period. Inadequate 
 as the execution may prove, compared to 
 
treface. vii 
 
 what such a subject demanded, some allow- 
 ance, it is hoped, will be made for the diffi- 
 culties of the undertaking itself; and the 
 defects at all times attendant on a first poet- 
 ical attempt, particularly one so long and 
 complicated as the present. 
 
 With this hope, the tale of Leipsic Field 
 is committed to the protection of the Britisli 
 public, always ready to extend a due share 
 of its approbation to any effort, however 
 humble, that has in view the promotion of 
 those principles of freedom, honour, and pa- 
 triotism, to which our happy land owes its 
 pre-eminence over the other nations of the 
 globe — those principles in whose defence our 
 
Vlll PREFACE. 
 
 fathers fought and died, and which conse- 
 crate the memory of the hero in the breasts 
 of his countrymen, when all sublunary dis- 
 tinctions are passed away. 
 
 Hereford, October 1815. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 CANTO 1 1 
 
 CANTO II 65 
 
 CANTO III 115 
 
 CANTO IV 155 
 
EMILIA OF LINDINAU; 
 
 THE FIELD OF LEIFSJC. 
 
EMILIA OF LINDINAU; 
 
 OR 
 
 THE FIELD OF LEIPSIC 
 
 CANTO I. 
 
 'XlS eve — the last faint tints of day 
 Are fading from the landscape grey, 
 With mingling gold and crimson red 
 No longer glows the mountain's head; 
 But where of late the rosy die 
 With vivid splendour fir'd the sky, • 
 A ling'ring line of radiance bright 
 Still marks it from the closing night: 
 Bright gleaming to the morning ray, 
 No more the landscape opens gay; 
 B 
 
g 
 
 Twilight her misty veil has drawn, 
 O'er winding- stream and purple lawn,. 
 And vallies, hills, and forests lie 
 Involv'd in dim obscurity. 
 
 II. 
 
 Sweet Evening, hail — thy aspect mild 
 
 Shall still be dear to fancy's child, 
 
 Still shall she seek the dewy vale, 
 
 To breathe thy soul-reviving gale, 
 
 Or mark o'er western cliffs afar 
 
 The rising of thy beamy star: 
 
 And hail to thee, bright Orb, whose ray 
 
 Was lent to cheer the lonely way 
 
 Of him who loves in pensive guise 
 
 To steal from life's gay vanities, 
 
 To sober meditations giv'n, 
 
 And pious thought approv'd by Heav'n: 
 
 The homely brow of ancient night 
 
 Seems fair when view'd by thy pale light? 
 
 Such soften'd scenes the landscape shows, 
 
 As when the fresh expanded rose, 
 
s 
 
 Veil'd in a shower, but half reveals 
 Her blushing" charms and half conceals; 
 Through fleecy clouds thy rising beam 
 Again illumes the silvan scene, 
 Which late obscur'd by night's dark shroud 
 No trace of former beauty show'd; 
 Glimmers again the mountain's crest, 
 And shines the vales with dew-drops drest, 
 Each brook and streamlet sparkles bright, 
 And Elbe's dark waters roll in light; 
 And where, the distant view to bound, 
 Proud Melnich rears her tow'rs around, 
 Each glitt'ring spire and casement gleam 
 Like silver in the lucid beam. 
 
 III. 
 
 But Brightest shone that magic ray, 
 Where Lindinau's old turrets lay, 
 And, green with moss and ivy's shade, 
 Frown'd awful o'er the sleeping glade: 
 No fairer spot shall fancy find 
 To charm the eye or sooth the mind; 
 
4 
 
 The woodland scene, luxuriant spread, 
 
 Adorns the hill, the lawn, the mead; 
 
 And hamlet-cot, and convent grey, 
 
 Are seen between the greenwood spray. 
 
 Yellow the vale with Ceres' pride, 
 
 And vineyards clothe the mountain's side; 
 
 And where the cliffs aspire on high, 
 
 And proudly face the southern sky, 
 
 O'er ev'ry crag the birch is thrown, 
 
 And decks with shade the dark grey stone; 
 
 Brighter the summer sun the while, 
 
 Seems on the lovely scene to smile, 
 
 And Elbe, unwilling to be gone, 
 
 With lengthen'd wave rolls slowly on. 
 
 Where yon bright showers of moonbeams fall, 
 
 That casement marks the castle hall. 
 
 A dim religious light is shed, 
 
 Through panes with blazon'd trophies spread, 
 
 Save when at times a passing cloud 
 
 Robes the pale moon with silv'ry shroud; 
 
 Then crest and banner print no more 
 
 Their shadows on the marble floor. 
 
IV. 
 
 And now the evening 1 mass was sung-, 
 The chase was o'er, the feast was done, 
 Within that Gothic hall of state 
 The Lord of Lindinau was sate, 
 And, yielding to reflection's power, 
 Enjoy 'd the lone and silent hour. 
 On that tall form and lofty mien, 
 The hand of time is slightly seen, 
 And here and there his locks display 
 A mingling tint of mournful grey; 
 Yet blazes still his eagle eye 
 With all its former majesty; 
 And still so fresh the lively red 
 That o'er the vet'ran's cheek is spread, 
 But for these marks of spoiling time 
 You might have thought him in his prime. 
 Smoothing the sternness of his brow 
 A trait of sorrow hovers now, 
 As if the calm of closing day 
 Had waken'd restless mem'ry's sway, 
 B 2 
 
6 
 
 With glowing" pencil skill'd too well 
 
 The flight of ravish'd ioys to tell. 
 
 As thus, in melancholy mood, 
 
 The gentle breeze of eve he woo'd, 
 
 A seraph-form, attending near, 
 
 Pours her soft accents on his ear, 
 
 And ev'ry art essays, to wile 
 
 His care-worn features to a smile; 
 
 That form so fair, you well might deem 
 
 The vision of a poet's dream, 
 
 By fancy's sporiive hand pourtray'd, 
 
 In semblance of a mortal maid. 
 
 As o'er the harp she graceful bends, 
 
 Her moisten'd eye to Heav'n ascends; 
 
 And when the breath of passing gale 
 
 Disturbs the foldings of her veil, 
 
 Or waves aside the glossy hair 
 
 Which shades her cheek and forehead fair, 
 
 That full dark eye in brighter gleam, 
 
 Seems lit with inspiration's beam. 
 
 View'd by the pale uncertain ray 
 
 That steals between the pillars grey, 
 
Her bending- form and garments white, 
 Touch'd with a blue and shadowy -light, 
 She looks the soft presiding- pow'r, 
 The genius of the moonlight hour — 
 Calling the aid of fairy shell 
 To bind the soul in magic spell. 
 Now blither wake the trembling strings, 
 As o'er the harp her hand she flings; 
 Anon a bolder strain resounds, 
 The lofty roof bears back the sounds, 
 That teli of war and battle-plain, 
 Of laurels won and foemen slain. 
 But soon the martial notes decay, 
 And breathes a sad and softer lay; 
 Now swelling into cadence clear, 
 Now scarcely breathing on the ear, 
 In varying strain the measure ran, 
 Responsive to the lay she sang. 
 
8 
 
 THE SONG. 
 
 Why sleeps the gay harp that, in strains lightly flow- 
 ing* 
 Was wont the lov'd halls of my fathers to cheer, 
 When the laurel-twin'd bowl for the bard was o'erflow • 
 ing, 
 And king's bent in rapture the story to hear? 
 
 Oh! hush'd is the harp, and, abandon'd by pleasure, 
 The halls of my fathers are dull and forlorn; 
 
 And scarcely awakens a soul-breathing measure, 
 The woes of my country in sadness to mourn. 
 
 Yet mem'ry still dwells on the days which have van 
 ish'd, 
 When valour and beauty encircled the board: 
 
9 
 
 And the harp, sad and silent since freedom was baa- 
 ish'd, 
 Now swells at the thought of her honours restor'd. 
 
 Oh! Freedom of yore, with their wild echoes blend- 
 ing. 
 Each woodland and mountain resounded thy strains, 
 Which call'd their brave sons, their lov'd country de- 
 fending", 
 To conquer or die for their own native plains. 
 
 Once more let thy spirit some hero awaken, 
 
 'Gainst haughty enslavers thy rights to maintain; 
 
 And the harp, which has hung on the willow forsaken, 
 Shall sound to the tale of our glory again. 
 
 Or if fate, with the laurel the cypress entwining, 
 Should mingle with triumph the tear for the brave, 
 
 O'er the turf of the hero the minstrel, reclining, 
 Shall breathe forth its numbers to hallow his grave. 
 
10 
 VI. 
 
 "Enchanting sounds!" the Baron cried, 
 And fondly press'd her to his side. 
 "Though sad the tale thy lays repeat, 
 Yet breath'd by thee the lay is sweet: 
 Time was, my child, this mournful theme 
 Had seena'd some poet's idle dream. 
 High in the scale of nations plac'd, 
 With arts, and arms, and science grac'd, 
 And bless'd with liberty, thy land 
 Call'd not for patriot's saving hand: 
 Oft hast thou read, in hist'ry's page, 
 Thy country's fame in former age, 
 Her sons, a bold and hardy race, 
 SkilPd in the fight and in the chase, 
 The mistress of the world defied, 
 For independence fought and died. 
 
 "When low imperial Home was laid, 
 And, wrapt in dark oblivion's shade, 
 Her glories slept — when science fled, 
 And sacred freedom droop'd her head, 
 
11 
 
 The genius of her Charlemagne 
 
 Reviv'd fair Learning's flame again, 
 
 Gleaming, like morning's twilight ray, 
 
 With promise of a brighter day; 
 
 Valiant, magnanimous, and sage, 
 
 The hero of a barb'rous age, 
 
 Whose name will distant annals grace 
 
 As founder of a mighty race, 
 
 Yet nobler meed that worth bestows 
 
 Than conquer'd states or vanquish'd foes; 
 
 For this the bard his urn shall crown 
 
 With trophies fair, of just renown, 
 
 And ev'ry grateful muse's tear, 
 
 Be shed on his untimely bier. 
 
 "Nor less, German ia, canst thou boast 
 In later days, a gallant host, 
 And foremost in the lists of fame, 
 Behold inscrib'd thy Eugene's name; 
 Valour*s and honour's darling child, 
 They on his infant cradle smil'd, 
 And to his youthful thought pourtray'd 
 The deeds his riper years display'd. 
 
12 
 
 How thou hast quell'd the Gallic foe, 
 Let Blenheim and let Minden show; 
 When with Brittania's sons allied 
 Thy warriors stemm'd the battle's tide, 
 And "bade their routed squadrons feel 
 The temper of the German steel. 
 
 "How chang'd the scene! in deepest shades 
 The radiant track of glory fades; 
 Fall'n in thy state, Germania! now 
 The laurel droops upon thy brow, 
 And all thy vital spirit fled, 
 We mourn thee as we mourn the dead, 
 Showing- in fate's despoiling- hour, 
 The form of life but not the pow'r: 
 From native joys, from native toils, 
 Thy sons are dragg'd to foreign soils, 
 The vassals of a despot's will, 
 His worst ambition to fulfil, 
 And doom'd to famine, plague, and sword, 
 Whene'er their tyrant gives the word. 
 Supine beneath his stern command, 
 Slumber the Rulers of the land: 
 
13 
 
 As bound by some enchanter's spell, 
 Or held perforce in prison-cell. 
 
 "Nor does Germania mourn alone 
 An abject and dishonour'd throne; 
 As when of old some barb'rous horde 
 An idol rais'd and then ador'd, 
 So, to this pageant of the day, 
 The states of Europe homage pay, 
 And bow beneath his haughty mien, 
 Who but for them had never been. 
 
 "Yet one there is — exulting- fame 
 To endless ages bear her name! — 
 Who midst the shock of states has stood, 
 Firm as the rock which braves the flood, 
 And rears aloft its awful brow 
 While baffled billows rage below. 
 Sole Empress of the circling Main, 
 Her downfal envy plots in vain: 
 See her, her single force oppose 
 To foreign and domestic foes, 
 And boldly stem the whelming tide, 
 "A refuge to the world beside! 
 c 
 
14 
 
 And wider spreads the sacred flame, 
 Hispania's sons are fir'd with shame. 
 Rous'd is the Genius of the North, 
 Who pours her warlike leg-ions forth; 
 Breathing 1 revenge, and direful hate, 
 For Europe's woes and Moscow's fate. 
 
 "And shalt thou, Germany, alone, 
 Bewail the gallant spirit flown? 
 Forbid it, Heaven." — As thus he spoke, 
 A menial on their converse broke. 
 "News from the court, my lord," he cried, 
 And plac'd a packet by his side. 
 
 VII. 
 
 With eager haste the Baron read, 
 Emilia gaz'd with tender dread, 
 And in his changing features sought, 
 To read his bosom's secret thought: 
 M ore warmly glows the vet'ran's cheek. 
 His kindling eyes emotion speak, 
 And joy's bright smile his lip displays, 
 As from his hand the scroll he lays. 
 
iJ 
 
 "Oh list, my child, and let thy heart 
 Bear in thy father's joy a part. 
 Thy country from her slumbers broke, 
 Indignant feels a foreign yoke, 
 And joins the pow'rs, whose noble aim 
 Is bravely freedom to reclaim. 
 How this unhop'd-for change befel, 
 I will not now delay to tell; 
 How Swede and Russ, their force agreed, 
 With Austria's loyal sons to lead; 
 How, by mysterious hand convey'd, 
 At midnight hour a packet laid 
 (So rumour says) by Francis' bed, 
 Trac'd in the writing of the dead, 
 Warning convey'd of future woe, 
 And bade him arm 'gainst Europe's foe! 
 All this thou canst at leisure read, 
 More serious cares demand my speed. 
 My feeble aid my sov'reign calls; 
 At morn I quit the castle walls, 
 To join the band on battle plain 
 Who fight their freedom to regain, 
 
16 
 
 "Weep'st thou, Emilia? Stay thy tears; 
 Small cause for grief in this appears; 
 Ne'er did my breast such pleasure know, 
 Through eighteen years of cureless woe. 
 Then check, my child, thy bosom's sigh, 
 Let no weak drop bedew thine eye, 
 Or rather let the tear be giv'n, 
 A grateful sacrifice to Heav'n; 
 Who bids us hope, for suff'ring past, 
 A recompense of bliss at last." 
 
 "Forgive, my sire!" Emilia cries, 
 "The tears thy loss alone supplies; 
 Thy daughter feels, none can so well, 
 The joyful tidings which you tell; 
 But the weak woman's filial fear 
 Trembles thy brare intent to hear, 
 And bids me all my terrors own, 
 For life now dear to me alone." 
 
 "Hence be thy fear, my gentle child," 
 Bold Lindinau exolaim'd, and smil'd. 
 "My waken'd country calls for aid, 
 And be the call with joy obey'd: 
 
17 
 
 With heart as gay to fight I go, 
 As erst to feast, or ball, or show; 
 I seek not death, nor will it shun, 
 In both my Maker's will be done. 
 Thou here, Emilia, shalt abide, 
 And wait th' event of battle's tide; 
 Amid thy childhood's fost'ring shade, 
 To Heaven thy orisons be paid: 
 The pray'r of virtue may prevail 
 When martial skill and courage fail. 
 "Now bid my menials here repair, 
 And for to-morrow's dawn prepare; 
 Whilst thou, my child, thy pillow find, 
 And lose the fears that rack thy mind. 
 Much have I yet to do and say: 
 Good night, my blessing- with thee stay." 
 
 VIII. 
 
 The morn, whose ray was wont to hail 
 Emilia's footsteps in the vale, 
 Or bid its breeze her senses greet 
 On mountain's brow, with odours sweet t 
 
 c2 
 
18 
 
 While deeper blush'd her cheeks of rose, 
 With hue like that the wild brier shows, 
 And fresher glow'd her lips' rich dye, 
 And brighter beam'd her lustrous eye; 
 The morn now found the pensive maid 
 Languid, and pale, and unarray'd. 
 No more with health and pleasure gay, 
 She goes to hail the rising day, 
 In wood or vale, but all resign'd 
 To sorrow's sway, her sadden'd mind 
 Awaits within her lonely bow'r, 
 The glowing morning's balmy hour. 
 But soon the tramp of steeds she hears, 
 And throng'd with men the court appears; 
 Who, there, their lord's command attend, 
 From Lindinau with him to wend. 
 Now on her name her father calls, 
 "Emilia!" echoes through the halls; 
 AVhilst dashing from her eye the tear, 
 That faintly dims its lustre clear. 
 With filial haste, she speeds to pay 
 The salutations of the day. 
 
19 
 
 IX. 
 
 With serious, yet with tender air, 
 The Baron met his daughter fair, 
 And as he press' d her dewy cheek, 
 A starting* tear his feeling's speak. 
 
 "Hear me, my child," at length he cried, 
 '•'And by my parting* words abide; 
 For sure Emilia's gentle breast 
 Will sacred hold my last behest. 
 A sinking country's cause to aid, 
 I leave thee here a timid maid, 
 Thy faithful guardian's refuge flown, 
 And no protection but thy own. 
 Nay, weep not! well thy mind I know, 
 Pure as the winter's spotless snow; 
 But thou art artless, young, and fair, 
 Oh then, my dearest child, beware; 
 So shall my blessing with thee stay, 
 And Heaven thy piety repay." 
 
 With streaming eyes the lovely maid 
 Vow'd ev'ry wish should be obey'd. 
 
20 
 
 And now the hour of parting- o'er, 
 She wanders to her secret bow'r, 
 Amidst its lonely shades to mourn, 
 O'er days that never mast return. 
 Far in a wild and quiet grove, 
 Fit haunt for genius and for love, 
 Wash'd by old Elbe's majestic tide, 
 A rock up rears its dark grey L,ide r 
 Within whose deep recesses stands, 
 A grotto form'd by nature's hands. 
 From the cleft roof a doubtful light 
 Gave ore and spar to sparkle bright, 
 And ray like that of moonbeam shone 
 On mossy floor «nd couch or' stone; 
 Wreaths of wild rose and woodbine-sprav 
 Hung mantling- o'er the rude door-way, 
 Beneath whose arch there wander'd still 
 A little silver tinkling- rill, 
 That, murm'ring- o'er the pebbles, made 
 Meet music for such quiet shade. 
 Oil here, in childhood's frolic hours, 
 Emilia brought her g-ather'd flow'rs, 
 
21 
 
 And here her harp's romantic sound 
 Gave sweetness to the echoes round. 
 Here, too, with meek and downcast eyes. 
 Young- Passion pour'd his infant sighs; 
 Whilst soft Confusion's rosy red 
 Fmilia's bashful cheek o'erspread, 
 And through her silken eye-lash stole 
 The glance that spoke her secret soul, 
 
 X. 
 
 In early life, Emilia fair 
 
 Had never known a mother's care, 
 
 For the same hour which gave her birth. 
 
 Consign'd that mother to the earth; 
 
 In pride of youth and beauty's bloom, 
 
 Ordain'd to fill an early tomb. 
 
 In foreign climes the Baron sought 
 
 An antidote for painful thought; 
 
 But e'er he went, a noble dame, 
 
 Allied by lineage and by name, 
 
 He found, and her maternal care 
 
 Entreated for his infant heir. 
 
Beneath her eye Emilia grew 
 
 Like flow'r that drinks the freshening dew, 
 
 And spreads around its blossoms gay, 
 
 Th* 3 hand of culture to repay; 
 
 So pure in mind, so fair in mien, 
 
 The flow'r of Lindinau is seen; 
 
 Fresh as the morning's fragrant shovv'r^ 
 
 And gentle as the evening hour. 
 
 And who is he, whose brilliant eye 
 Beam ; brighter when Emilia's nigh; 
 Who, 'midst her forest walks nnseen, 
 Watches her footsteps o'er the green; 
 Or roves the distant valley wide, 
 To meet her by the streamlet's side? 
 'Tis Frederic, heir of Walbergh's tow'rs, 
 The partner of her infant hours: 
 Who, when the tasks of boyhood done, 
 Flann'd ev'ry art his home to shun, 
 And darted forth like greyhound fleet, 
 His lovely favourite to greet. 
 For her he robb'd the vocal bow'rs, 
 And rifled ev'ry mead of flowers; 
 
23 
 
 For strawb'rries rang'd the coppice low, 
 Or climb'd the pine-tree's topmost bough, 
 When through the spiry branches wide 
 The sportive squirrel he espied. 
 
 XI. 
 
 And now when youth, with added grace, 
 
 Has deck'd Emilia's witching face, 
 
 And in young Frederic's op'ning mien 
 
 A manly elegance is seen; 
 
 The sportive days of childhood o'er, 
 
 Its thoughtless mirth can charm no more; 
 
 Yet still he seeks the beauteous maid, 
 
 In Lindinau's romantic shade; 
 
 And when the flight of timid deer 
 
 Her wish'd approach betokens near, 
 
 Whence springs the blush that dyes her cheek, 
 
 As on he speeds the maid to seek? 
 
 And why the trembliog hand, that stays 
 
 Her footsteps through the woody maze? 
 
 Emilia, too, more coy is grown; 
 
 And all the playful freedom's flown, 
 
 Which in their childish hours was shown. 
 
 1 
 
Yet beams her lips' enchanting smile 
 As kind, her downcast eye the while 
 No longer dares the glance to meet 
 It once repay'd with answer sweet; 
 But if, as through the shade they glide, 
 Young Fred'ric's looks are turn'd aside, 
 That eye, to love's expression true, 
 In secret seeks his form to view. 
 
 Thus ev'ry day which glided by 
 More firmly bound the tender tie, 
 And under friendship's soothing name 
 Conceal'd heir passions growing fiaue. 
 Thus pass'd their life; and, fortune, sure, 
 With envy view'd a bliss so pure, 
 For storm was nigh, whose whelming blow 
 Laid all their fairy prospects low. 
 So on the surface of vhe tide, 
 In ev'ning sport the insects glide, 
 And while in frolic mood they play, 
 \ sudden blast sweeps all away. 
 
25 
 XII. 
 
 In foreign climes and martial strife 
 The Baron pass'd his restless life, 
 And sev'nteen years were nearly o'er 
 Since last he view'd his native shore. 
 But now the friend, whose guidance mild 
 Had train'd from infancy his child, 
 Was mingled with the silent dust, 
 And none to take the sacred trust- 
 Emilia, destitute of friends, 
 To Lindinau his course he bends, 
 With fond impatience to embrace 
 The sole survivor of his race. 
 They met; but how we will not tell, 
 There are who can conceive it well; 
 And language sure were all too weak, 
 The parent's raptur'd joy to speak, 
 Who long in distant land exil'd, 
 Beholds, instead of prattling child, 
 A woman's form — so fair, it seems 
 The vision of his youthful dreams, 
 ft 
 
26 
 
 As risen from the tomb, she came 
 To greet him with a husband's name. 
 And now, when time had well dispell'd 
 The first restraint that converse held, 
 Oft on Emilia's gentle tongue 
 The name belov'd of Fred'ric hung*, 
 As talking- o'er her early days, 
 Each tale she tells recounts his praise. 
 
 The Baron notes her secret cares, 
 And questions of the name he bears. 
 But soon as "Walbergh" meets his ear, 
 He starts, with doubt, surprise, and fear. 
 Emilia view'd his kindling 1 eye, 
 Where rage and scorn for mast'ry vie;. 
 Then trembled at the vengeful look, 
 And changing- hue, his features took. 
 No more her cheeks their bloom retain, 
 Unwonted drops the crimson stain, 
 The angry glance her soul appals, 
 And shudd'ring at his feet she falls. 
 "What heart that prostrate form could meet, 
 That upcast look, so sad and sweet, 
 
Nor feel each fiery passion die, 
 Beneath her mild and melting- eye? 
 With soften'd mien the Baron gaz'd, 
 Quickly the weeping- fair he rais'd, 
 And as he snatch'd her to his breast, 
 la gentler tones these words address'd: 
 
 XIII, 
 
 «'I know, my child, thy filial heart 
 Will always act a duteous part; 
 And for the past no blame is thine, 
 The sorrow and the fault be mine: 
 But, mark me, ere a Walberg-h's nam* 
 With Lindinau's alliance claim, 
 Though thou art dearer than the tide 
 Which animates my panting side, 
 I'd see thee plac'd upon thy bier 
 Without a pang, a sigh, a tear, 
 And sooner view thee void of life, 
 Than greet thee as young Fred'ric's wife! 
 You say the youth is fam'd for worth, 
 And high in virtue as in birth — 
 
S8 
 
 I grant it all; and though the name 
 Of Walbergh sets my heart in flame, 
 I would not, or by word or arm, 
 The youthful heir of Walbergh harm. 
 Yet list, Emilia, to a tale 
 Will make thy cheek of roses pale; 
 And say if aught of me, or mine, 
 Can e'er unite with Walbergh's line? 
 
 XIV. 
 THE BARON'S TALE. 
 
 "In those sweet days of early prime, 
 When pleasure clips the wings of time, 
 And hope leads on the jocund hours 
 In Lindinau's sequester'd bow'rs, 
 A lov'd companion by my side, 
 To ev'ry joy, a joy supplied; 
 Fair as thou art, Emilia, she 
 Was lovely when compar'd to thee; 
 The softest tints, carnation's streak, 
 Gave freshness to her youthful cheek, 
 
29 
 
 And the pure blue of autumn sky | 
 Was rival'd by her laughing eye. 
 One hour beheld our birth; the same 
 Our rank, our parents, and our name; 
 And ne'er such love did brother know, 
 As that which gave my heart a glow. 
 Together grew our youthful years, 
 Unmark'd by care, unstain'd by tears; 
 And oft I thought, if future woe 
 Should stamp its furrows on my brow, 
 The mem'ry of those pleasant days 
 A thrill of long-lost joy would raise, 
 And wake the earlier dreams again, 
 Which riper years must woo in vain. 
 
 "Delusive hope! an evil hour 
 Pluck'd, ere 'twas blown, my cherish'd flow'r; 
 The eye which saw its charms unclose, 
 Pure as the summer's modest rose, 
 Fresh op'ning to the morning sun, 
 Beheld it, ere its course was run, 
 Low in the dust all wither'd cast, 
 Its beauties soil'd, its glory past. 
 d2 
 
30 
 
 "Now eighteen years upon my head, 
 Alternate snows and flow'rs had shed,. 
 When gay with hope, in spirits gay, 
 My fancy kindling to survey 
 A world unknown, then first I sigh'd 
 To quit, sweet Elbe, thy fairy side; 
 Eager another scene to view 
 Which only charm'd because 'twas new. 
 Long did my sire my wish delay, 
 My sister weep, my mother pray. 
 E'en now in thought I suffer o'er 
 The sorrows of the parting hour, 
 I mark the Baron's moisten'd eye, 
 I hear my mother's tender sigh, 
 The gath'ring clouds of grief I view 
 That o'er her face their shadow threw, 
 And kiss away the tear-drop meek, 
 That dew'd Paulina's dimpled cheek. 
 But when from yonder mountain's brow, 
 1 turn'd to view the scene below, 
 And rising mid the pine tops saw 
 The ancient tow'rs of Lindinau, 
 
31 
 
 The stream where oft with angler's pride, 
 I lur'd the trout with speckled side, 
 The woods that with the dawning sun 
 Re-echo'd to my thund'ring gun, 
 Each childish haunt, to mem'ry dear, 
 Awaken'd feeling's tenderest tear, 
 And friends belov'd, and joys resign'd, 
 In sad succession fill'd my mind. 
 With fond regret my bosom bled, 
 As round I turn'd my courser's head; 
 And oft I paus'd, and linger'd still, 
 As slow we winded down the hill, 
 Then rousing all my spirits gay, 
 Gave one long look and rush'd away. 
 
 XV. 
 
 "What accidents my course befel 
 
 I will not now minutely tell. 
 
 Of many a land a wand'rer o'er, 
 
 I trod the flow'ry banks of Loire, 
 
 And where old Thames, with monarch-pride, 
 
 Beholds a navy crown his tide; 
 
33 
 
 Where Guadalquiver's rushing flood 
 Flows lonely on midst rocks and wood; 
 And, Arno, trac'd thy classic stream, 
 Inspiring many a poet's dream; 
 Have trod Helvetia's fairy vales, 
 And breath'd Sicilia's balmy gales; 
 In India's sultry clime been laid, 
 Beneath the tall palmato's shade; 
 And mid Columbia's deserts rude, 
 And wilds of endless solitude; 
 Have pierc'd her forest-depths profound, 
 Where vast Savannahs spread around: 
 Yet still, midst ev'ry changing scene 
 My fancy paus'd on what had been; 
 For many a sorrow would intrude, 
 And many a care my steps pursu'd. 
 And oft, when grief oppress'd my mind, 
 The thought of joys I'd left behind 
 Would raise a doubt, if those we meet 
 In foreign climes are half so sweet. 
 
 "At length with wand'ring tir'd, and pain, 
 I sought my native home again: 
 
33 
 
 And one lone treasure hither bore 
 
 From all the lands I'd travell'd o'er — 
 
 A flow'r that mid the calm retreat 
 
 Of solitude I chanc'd to meet, 
 
 And thence convey'd with tend'rest care 
 
 To grace my garden's rich parterre. 
 
 I read, Emilia, in thy eyes 
 
 A look of wonder and surprise; 
 
 Then, mark me, in thy form is seen 
 
 A copy of the flow'r I mean, 
 
 Who, when she bade this world adieu, 
 
 Left me her image still in you. 
 
 Two ling'ring years had now gone by 
 
 Since last I heard from Germany, 
 
 And thoughts of change that might ensue 
 
 Made me impatient to review 
 
 That spot, where, ev'ry p ril past, 
 
 My heart might seek for rest at last. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 "At length, 'twas on an evening fair 
 When July breath'd the sweetest air, 
 
84 
 
 That first I view'd from Linden's side 
 Proud Melnich's towers and Elbe's dark tide, 
 And when night's deeper shadows fell, 
 And veil'd in gloom each mountain dell, 
 I mark'd beneath the moon's pale ray, 
 Through yonder wood these turrets grey. 
 'Twas darkness all, no taper's light 
 Gleam'd on the dusky robe of night. 
 I pass'd the gates, no cheerful sound 
 Broke the still solitude around; 
 Save the low breeze, that sweeping by, 
 Seem'd o'er the lonely courts to sigh. 
 The hall, which erst had echo'd loud 
 The murmurs of a menial crowd, 
 Or mid the banquet us'd to ring, 
 With maiden's voice and minstrel string, 
 Was lonely, yet in mem'ry's eye 
 Three forms belov'd were hov'ring nigh. 
 "Yon Gothic couch and massive chair, 
 That shone beneath the moonlight fair, 
 Still show'd a venerable head 
 With silv'ry tresses overspread; 
 
35 
 
 And one whose matron cheek display'd 
 The ravages which care had made, 
 While youthful beauty's witching- face 
 Fill'd up that window's vacant place. 
 
 "Oh! 'twas a pause— as life stood still, 
 A sick'ning heart-subduing chill,— 
 A moment that to thought appears 
 Fraught with the misery of years. 
 When, midst this tumult of the mind, 
 A sudden gust of summer wind 
 Came rushing through a casement low, 
 And gently swept a harp below; 
 Whose chords, that oft with rapture sweet 
 Had sweli'd Paulina's hand to meet. 
 Touch' d by the blast again resound, 
 A soft, low, plaintive, thrilling sound. 
 The well known tone restor'd again 
 Composure to my madden'd brain, 
 Itecall'd the thought of former years, 
 And wak'd the luxury of tears. 
 At length, in search the chambers round, 
 An ancient serving-man I found, 
 
36 
 
 Who, in my father's hall grown old, 
 With streaming- eyes his story told. 
 What did I hear? — My parents dead— 
 My sister — my Paulina, fled — 
 With Walbergh fled — Well mayst thou start, 
 Well may the life-blood quit thy heart; 
 E'en now, such pangs of anguish wake 
 As seem'd my shrinking soul to shake, 
 When red with rage — with vengeance pale 
 I listen'd to the thrilling tale. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 "Retir'd within her native shade, 
 
 Lord Walbergh saw the beauteous maid; 
 
 lie lov'd, but, base the selfish flame, 
 
 Another held his hand and name. 
 
 An heiress she — In evil hour 
 
 Me sought her father's lordly tow'r, 
 
 By wealth allur'd; — In honour's guise 
 
 He made the maiden's heart his prize, 
 
 Fred'rica's sire his suit withstands, — 
 
 A priest in secret joins their hands, 
 
37 
 
 Young- Walbergh's friend, to whom alone 
 The secret of their loves was known. 
 
 "Unconscious of the fatal truth, 
 Paulina lov'd the wily youth, 
 For ne'er did partial fate adorn 
 With manlier grace a lover's form; 
 And ne'er did lover's tongue repeat 
 In virgin's ear a tale more sweet; 
 Too well his love-lorn cause he pleads, 
 Too well his dark design succeeds. 
 An artful tale the villain told 
 Of friends, who, sway'd by love of gold, 
 Him urg'd to wed another fair; 
 And, feigning anguish and despair, 
 Implor'd the tender trembling maid, 
 To fly with him her native shade. 
 
 "Long in Paulina's gentle breast, 
 Conflicting passions wildly press'd; 
 But love prevail'd — a fatal hour 
 Consign'd her to a traitor's pow'r. — 
 They fled, and soon her doom was seal'd, 
 And Walbergh's treachery reveal'd. 
 
 E 
 
38 
 
 In vain in nightly sorrows shed, 
 
 Her tears bedew'd Paulina' bed; 
 
 What can her innocence restore. 1 ' — 
 
 The rose, once cropp'd, will bloom no more. 
 
 "The story of the ruin'd maid 
 To Lindinau was soon convey'd: 
 'Tis done — the flatt'ring hopes laid low 
 Which gilt with smiles time's fading brow. 
 Nought earthly now can balm impart 
 To heal a mother's breaking heart; 
 O'erwhelm'd she sunk, nor linger'd long 
 Your sire, to weep his consort gone. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 •'He ceas'd — nor words my grief allow'*!; 
 Whilst fust as thine, Emilia! flow'd 
 From eye as dark, on cheek as pale, 
 My Julia's tears, who heard the tali. 
 
 "For me, the drop which grief supplied, 
 Upon my burning cheek was dried; 
 All, all, that late had heav'd my breast , 
 Hope, fear, suspend, were sunk o r 
 
39 
 
 Revenge, dark passion, sate alone 
 Triumphant on my bosom's throne. 
 Methought, that through the falling gloom 
 Which shrouded o'er their lonely tomb, 
 My parents' shades, soft gliding by, 
 In mournful accents seem'd to sigh, 
 'Revenge!' — And at their lonely tomb 
 I vow'd the Lord of Walbergh's doom; 
 Nor time, nor distance, word, nor charm, 
 Should save him from my venging arm. 
 
 ''In vain my gentle Julia sought 
 To quell my raging bosom's thought; 
 Though, soft as those delicious gales 
 That fan her own Sicilia's vales, 
 She bent beneath her mild controul 
 Each ruder passion of my soul. 
 
 "None knew, as yet, what distant shed 
 Gave shelter to Paulina's head; 
 And ev'ry art was tried in vain 
 Some tidings of her fate to gain. 
 
 "From all I learn'd, in tranquil state, 
 Unclouded by the storms of fate, 
 
40 
 
 Still Walbergh liv'd — no pensive brow 
 Spoke of remorse, or secret woe. 
 Gay pleasure sparkled in his eye, 
 And lent his cheek her liveliest dye; 
 A beauteous bride — a lovely boy, 
 Gave rapture to his hours of joy. 
 
 "My bosom swell'd; 'and thou,' I cried, 
 'Once of thy house the boast and pride! 
 Shalt thou in deep seclusion's shade 
 Droop o'er thy sorrows, pine, and fade — 
 Neglect and poverty thy lot — 
 By all the world, save one, forgot? 
 While he! — The author of thy woes, 
 Nor sorrow, nor repentance knows. 
 Could I unmov'd behold thy wrong's, 
 E'en the cold elements their tongues 
 Would raise — and murm'ring seem to say, 
 Insensate! whence this dull delayr' 
 
 XIX. 
 
 "We met — we fought — my firmer hand 
 Laid Walbergh lifeless on the strand. 
 
41 
 
 That form whose boast of manly chamii; 
 Had lur'd Paulina to his arms, 
 Sunk at my feet — His heart's best tide 
 Crimson'd the dewy greensward wide; 
 Clos'd his faint eye, in languor weak, 
 And death's pale hue o'erspread his cheek. 
 Vengeance was o'er — in gentler mood 
 Above my foe, I dark'ning stood, 
 Sustain'd and staunch'd the flowing blood. 
 
 "He speaks, *0 Lindinau,' he cried, 
 "Tis just that by thy hand I died!— 
 Hence — stay not — fly, while flight remain*, 
 For here await thee woe and chains: 
 Fred'rica's sire, now reconcil'd, 
 Will seek revenge. — My wife, my child- 
 Paulina! — Oh — ' The struggle's o'er. 
 He sinks, and Walbergh is no more! 
 
 •*A moment bent I o'er the corse, 
 A moment felt thy pangs, remorse! 
 Paulina's image rose the while, 
 Faded and wan, yet seem'd to smile. 
 
 %2 
 
 } 
 
42 
 
 Then, rushing" from the scene of death, 
 
 I sought a lonecot on the heath, 
 
 Whose humble roof might well defy 
 
 Suspicion's keen inquiring- eye. 
 
 Vain was the hope — young 1 Walbergh's wife 
 
 So deeply mourn'd his ravish'd life, 
 
 So well his friends their gold dispos'd, 
 
 My mean retreat was soon disclos'd: 
 
 Watch'd, follow'd, seiz'd — a prison's gloom 
 
 Became thy wretched father's doom. 
 
 Sad, lone, and dreary pass'd the hour, 
 
 Nor step, nor voice approach'd my tow'r, 
 
 Save the stern guard, who, still unchang'd, 
 
 No answer to my questions deign'd. 
 
 No word from Julia brought relief, 
 
 And fancy shudder'd at her grief: 
 
 When time, whose flight nought can restrain^. 
 
 Still moving on in joy or pain, 
 
 Ileleas'd me from this living- tomb, 
 
 To meet — Oh, Heav'n — a murd'rer's doom. 
 
 The published story of my wrongs, 
 
 Re-echo'd by a thousand tongues, 
 
43 
 
 Preserv'd my life — my person freed, 
 And banishment my lot decreed. 
 The sentence this — pronounc'd to save 
 Thy father from a happier grave; 
 Short time did rigid fate allow 
 In Germany to linger now, 
 And quick I flew to Julia's bow'r, 
 To pass with her a parting hour, 
 Whose smiles might still a calm bestow, 
 And lull awhile the sense of woe. 
 Lonely I pass'd — Night's deepest shades 
 Had overspread my native glades; 
 No taper shed its welcome flame, 
 And long I knock'd ere answer came; 
 Seem'd as my halls no longer hail'd 
 With joy, the man whom fate assail'd, 
 And like the world disdain'd to know 
 Their master in the hour of woe. 
 
 "At length the sullen doors unfold, 
 And show'd beyond a menial old; 
 Who, when he saw me, backwards flew 
 As spectre's form had met his view. 
 
44 
 
 'Where is my Julia? — where?' I cried: 
 
 '•The old man wept and turn'd aside. 
 
 He spoke not, but his aspect pale 
 
 Told to my heart a fearful tale. 
 
 I seiz'd a lamp — I hurried o'er 
 
 The hall, and reach'd her chamber-door. 
 
 A moment's interval I stood — 
 
 Beyond — a scene which froze my blood -r 
 
 Yet was I calm — my tearless eye 
 
 Gaz'd on in silent agony. 
 
 Such welcome drops, belong alone 
 
 To common woes — Despair has none. 
 
 In death so calm her features seem'd, 
 
 Their soft repose might well be deem'd 
 
 A gentle sleep — save, that her face 
 
 No more retain'd that speaking grace, 
 
 That magic which expression stole 
 
 On ev'ry trait to stamp her soul. 
 
 That beauty -breathing spirit fled, 
 
 Yet seem'd the smile her lips o'erspread, 
 
 Angelically sweet — to say — 
 
 'How bless'd (he spirit pass'd away.' 
 
4& 
 
 Her dark locks slept upon her brow, 
 And gently kiss'd her cheek of snow, 
 Which still in vision seem'd to glow. 
 For through the crimson curtain's shade 
 A gleam of trembling moonshine play'd, 
 And o'er her pallid features threw 
 The faint reflection of its hue. 
 
 XX. 
 
 "Now first I heard— That from the day 
 Which tore me from her arms away, 
 Fear, terror, sorrow, all combin'd 
 To prey upon her gentle mind; 
 Nor long my Julia's fragile form 
 Was able to resist the storm, 
 Scarce liv'd to give Emilia life, 
 Then fled this scene of care and strife. 
 
 "I saw thee — Oh! what nameless charm 
 Has helpless infancy to warm! 
 My chill'd heart felt, and glow'd again, 
 
 } 
 
46 
 
 But fate will small indulgence show 
 
 To sorrow or affliction now; , 
 
 The dawning- of the second day 
 
 Must see thy father far away: 
 
 Torn from the spot, where, true to love, 
 
 Despairing 1 thought would ling'ring rove; 
 
 Torn — ere to Julia's sacred shade, 
 
 The last sad hallow'd rites were paid; 
 
 Denied to shed upon her grave 
 
 The tear that mourns, but cannot save. 
 
 "No pow'r has language to impart 
 The pangs which rent my bursting heart. 
 'Tis past — that agonizing throe, 
 What recks my soul at future woe? 
 
 "As monarch oak which crowns the steep 
 Sees round its arms a woodbine creep; 
 Faint — fragrant — fair — the gentle flow'r 
 Sought shelter there from tempests' pow'r, 
 Then bloom'd, and sweetest odours paid 
 In tribute to the guardian shade: 
 A whirlwind came, and rudely tore 
 The flow'ret from the stem which bore. 
 
*7 
 
 Lonely on earth 'tis left to die, 
 And blasted stand the oak on high, 
 With shatter'd bough, and wither'd leaf, 
 A living monument of grief. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 "Impell'd by fate, and heedless ,where 
 A grave was giv'n to my despair, 
 What pang could banishment bestow, 
 Which only chang'd the scene of woe? 
 The tempest which had swept away 
 The sun that gilt my life's long day, 
 Had left behind no beam to cheer 
 My path, while doom'd to linger here. 
 Siberia's bleak and drear abode 
 To me congenial horrors show'd. 
 Her desert wilds — her tracks of snow, 
 Where distance lengthens as you go, 
 Were like the waste, which heedless strife 
 And human hate had made my life. 
 The scene, where tranquil beauty lives, 
 To helpless -grief no pleasure gives; 
 
48 
 
 The piny forest's gloom prafonnd, 
 Where trace of man is seldom found; 
 The elements in angry mood, 
 The roaring of the wintry Hood, 
 A melancholy charm impart, 
 To sooth a sorrow-stricken heart. 
 Wild — vast — sublime — t felt the scene 
 Breathe o'er my soul a deep serene, 
 Till woke that spirit, stern and sjreat, 
 Which scorns despair, and mocks at fate* 
 Toil, cold, and famine, strove in vain, 
 One sigh — one murmur to obtain. 
 For others woes my tears were shed, 
 My only sorrow for the dead. 
 
 "Two ling'ring years ©f exik o'er, 
 I press'd Germania's strand once more; 
 But not for me her beauties giow'd, 
 My native land no joy bestow'd; 
 I dar'd not seek again the dome, 
 Where Julia would not ^veIcome home; 
 At Melnich, in my widow**! arms, 
 A moment press'd thy infant charms; 
 
49 
 
 Then sought in martial feuds to gain 
 Oblivion to my bosom's pain. 
 Years roll'd on years, and still unchang'd 
 Beheld me from my child estrang'd; 
 Wealth, fame, and pow'r, acceptance sought, 
 But happiness can ne'er be bought: 
 Still, still, or suffer'd, or enjoy'd, 
 Existence pass'd a cheerless void; 
 And, heedless of the blessing giv'n, 
 In thee, sweet girl, by pitying Heav'n, 
 1 1 mourn'd my solitary lot, 
 That blessing slighted or forgot. 
 
 "Emilia has not now to learn 
 The cause that brought her sire's return. 
 In thee, again, the form I saw, 
 That hopeless mem'ry lov'd to draw; 
 And all the love so long repress'd, 
 With added warmth, o'erflow'd my breast: 
 Again, with joy, my bosom beat, 
 Thy gentle tenderness to meet; 
 'Twas Julia's child, whose angel face 
 Hecall'd her innocence and grace — 
 F 
 
 >- 
 
50 
 
 'Twas Julia's self, who sweetly strove 
 To lure me back to hope and love. 
 
 "And shall a Walbergh's lord, again 
 Destroy the visions of my brain? 
 A sister's loss — a martyr'd wife — 
 Shame — exile — all the ills of life — 
 From that detested name I bear; 
 And still must sorrow threaten there? 
 
 "Wilt thou, Emilia, seal my woe, 
 By loving- one I deem my foe? 
 No — in thy melting eyes I see, 
 I lose not all in losing thee; 
 My daughter still my joy shall prove, 
 Nor sacred duty yield to love." 
 
 XXII. 
 
 Thus ceas'd the tale, whose mournful them 
 Destroy'd young love's enchanting dream; 
 For all its train of hopes and fears, 
 Left nought but bitterness and tears; 
 And chang'd the waken'd feelings' glow, 
 To pangs of cheerless, cureless woe. 
 
51 
 
 No more, when morning's dusky red, 
 Gleam'd doubtful o'er the mountain's head, 
 With fault'ring step, Emilia, fair, 
 Stole forth to meet proud Walbergh's heir; 
 Nor when the twilight's pensive grey- 
 But dimly show'd the lone-path way, 
 Still found him ling'ring in the grove, 
 That heard his earliest vows of love. 
 Imperious duty's stern behest 
 Chill'd the warm wishes of her breast: 
 Yet oft, at midnight's solemn hour, 
 Her lone step scal'd the lofty tow'r, 
 To watch the taper's distant ray, 
 Which mark'd where Walbergh's terrets lay,- 
 And fondly thought, 'Yon friendly light, 
 That through the greenwood glimmers bright, 
 Gleams on his eye — who^ pensive glance 
 Is fix'd in melancholy trance, 
 Or sees the tear, which, half repress'd, 
 Betrays the sadness of his breast; 
 And startling from a restless bed 
 Paces the floor with hurried tread, 
 
52 
 
 Or watches through the casement high, 
 The pale-ey'd morn ascend the sky; 
 And when her warbling- heralds wake, 
 When health and joy their couch forsake, 
 In transient slumbers seeks to find 
 A balm to sooth his troubled mind.' 
 
 Thrice the cold moon her orb had chang'd, 
 And Frederic still from bliss estrang'd, 
 And banish'd from those much-lov'd tow'rs, 
 Which hail'd him oft in happier hours, 
 Had vainly call'd on absence' aid, v 
 
 To heal the wounds that love had made! 
 Denied her sight, whose presence stole 
 Like hope upon the fainting soul, 
 Bidding the gloomy visions fly, 
 That dimm'd with tears the languid eye; 
 He chides no more the tardy time 
 To bring the hour of matin prime. 
 In vain the morn her blossoms spreads, 
 Her music pours, her fragrance sheds; 
 In vain the eve, in shadowy veil, 
 Steals soft and slow along the vale; 
 
53 
 
 Unheeded move the moments on, 
 
 To him who sighs o'er pleasures gone. 
 
 How shall he cheat the dreary day, 
 
 How wile the long, long night away, 
 
 Who hopes not that the coming hour, 
 
 His ravish'd treasure will restore? 
 
 The hue, which health and youth bestow'dj 
 
 On Frederic's cheek no longer glow'd; 
 
 A sick'ning apathy of soul, 
 
 Kills fancy 'neath its rude control, 
 
 Which recks not, fears not, hopes not, now, 
 
 And tears the rose from mem'ry's brow. 
 
 Young genius droops, no more his strain 
 
 Can banish care or soften pain; 
 
 The voice that prais'd the love-taught lays 
 
 No more the welcome tribute pays 
 
 Of soft applause; — the eye divine, 
 
 That oft sweet converse held with thine, 
 
 No more, fond youth, thy gaze can meet. 
 
 Nor witching voice thy lays repeat. 
 
 f 2 
 
54 
 XXIII. 
 
 But now the wak'ning clang" of war 
 
 Reaches his native cliffs from far, 
 
 And calls to arms a gallant train 
 
 To break a tyrant's galling- chain; 
 
 Rouses a spirit, proud and high, 
 
 Which gleams in Walbergh's kindling" eye, 
 
 And points where glory may bestow 
 
 A laurel wreath to grace his brow. 
 
 A momentary pang he feels, 
 
 At thought of her, whose mem'ry steals 
 
 On ev'ry theme of joy or woe — 
 
 And must he now the bliss forego, 
 
 Though sad, yet sweet, at ev'ning hour, 
 
 To seek Emilia's lonely bow'r? 
 
 Where though no more her form is seen, 
 
 Reclining on the velvet green, 
 
 It breathes in ev'ry flowret's bloom, 
 
 That through the lattice sheds perfume; 
 
 Her melting voice is heard to sigh 
 
 In ev'ry breeze that passes by; 
 
bo 
 
 And e'en the streamlet's silver tone, 
 Soft murm'ring o'er its bed of stone, 
 Seems of Emilia's charms to tell, 
 In the sweet spot she loves so well. 
 
 One visit more his fate allows, 
 Ere from his youthful haunts he goes, 
 And hope, inspiring- visions fair, 
 Whispers 'Emilia may be there.' 
 
 Now has he pass'd the Gothic door, 
 Now softly treads the mossy floor. 
 'Tis she — Oh, Heav'n — In light array, 
 On rushy couch, Emilia lay; 
 Who sought her grotto's shade, to shun 
 The fervours of the noon-day sun. 
 The god of slumber, hov'ring* nigh, 
 Had gently clos'd her languid eye, 
 On whose fring'd lid a tear-drop laid, 
 And mock'd the smile her lip display'd. 
 
 Bent o'er the couch, with folded hands 
 And moisten'd cheek, young Frederic stands; 
 Scarce dares to breathe, and fears a sigh 
 Should bid the lovely vision die! — 
 
56 
 
 She starts — Her radiant eyes unclose — 
 A doubting glance around she throws, 
 And o'er her cheeks such colours fly 
 As paint at morn a summer sky, 
 When kindling- ether seems o'erspread 
 With roses on a pearly bed. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 Is there an hour? — a raptur'd hour, 
 Which overpays an age of pain? 
 'Tis when, a painful absence o'er, 
 Two faithful lovers meet again! 
 But cares, that hang on sorrow's brow, 
 O'ercloud that hour of rapture now; 
 Sadden Emilia's glist'ning eye — 
 And prompt young Frederic's frequent sigh. 
 Not thus they met in former time, 
 When life and love were in their prime. 
 
 "Forgive," he cries, "beloved maid, 
 That here my wand'ring steps have stray'd, 
 And, breaking on thy lonely hour, 
 Have dar'd approach thy secret bow'r; 
 
57 
 
 I know thy duty bids me go, 
 
 1 know I dare not plead my woe; 
 
 Yet, ere that fatal word you say, 
 
 One moment, oh, Emilia! stay. — 
 
 By all the joys of childish years, 
 
 By passion's sighs, and sorrow's tears, 
 
 Refuse not now the last request 
 
 Of him whom once thy friendship blest — 
 
 The last— for when the orb of day 
 
 Sheds on this grove its evening ray, 
 
 That ray shall light my course afar 
 
 To join Germania's kindling war." 
 
 She paus'd — she turn'd — a sudden thrill, 
 Like sense of some committed ill, 
 Urg'd her to leave the grot — in vain — 
 Those words her flying steps restrain; 
 Pale, trembling, faint, young Fred'ric's arms 
 Can scarce sustain her sinking charms, 
 Bears to the couch — and kneeling by, 
 With anguish views her streaming eye. 
 
 "Oh! weep not thus, though ev'ry tear 
 Might vouch that Walbergh still is dear: 
 
58 
 
 Nor think I seek thy mind to sway 
 
 From duty's sacred paths to stray: — 
 
 I love thee — Mem'ry cannot scan 
 
 When first my fervent love began: 
 
 But midst those shades, where, gay and fre£, 
 
 We pass'd our sportive infancy, 
 
 First woke that flame, to nature true, 
 
 Which future time can ne'er subdue. 
 
 No thought or fear of crime had pow'r 
 
 To sadden then our meeting hour, 
 
 My only thought, my only fear, 
 
 At evening not to find thee here — 
 
 "Those days are o'er, and now decreed 
 Sad victim of another's deed — 
 Condemn' d — unheard — my only claim 
 To hate— is Walbergh's fatal name. 
 In me, such hate were sure as just 
 Tow'rds him who laid my sire in dust; 
 And bade sad grief's o'erflowing tears 
 Consume a mother's youthful years. 
 Yet no — though cold he still may prove 
 To reason, sorrow, pity, love, 
 
59 
 
 Emilia's sire no thought can wake 
 
 But filial rev'rence for her sake; 
 
 His cutting scorn, his haughty pride, 
 
 Which ev'ry soft'ning art defied, 
 
 Be all forgot. — If still is mine, 
 
 The only bliss I can't resign, 
 
 Thy heart, Emilia.— Saints above 
 
 Are witness of our mutual love. 
 
 And often her maternal voice, 
 
 Who rear'd thy youth, approv'd the choice, 
 
 As gaily sporting by her side 
 
 She blest us both, and softly sigh'd — 
 
 'Sweet union, destin'd sure to be 
 The bond of peace and amity; 
 Mayst thou blot out in future time, 
 All trace of vengeance, rage, and crime.' 
 
 "I marvell'd much, but little guess'd 
 The mournful tale those words confess'd, 
 Alas! that soothing dream is o'er, 
 Thy heart perhaps is mine no more; 
 And soon some happier favour'd youth 
 May claim thy hand— thy love— thy trutfr. 
 
60 
 
 Yet, think not he, whose beating heart, 
 With life and thee alone can part, 
 Will e'er behold the fatal day, 
 Which tears thee from his arms away. 
 "This morn must see my last adieu, 
 The next yon bloody field I view; 
 And there some welcome ball may prove 
 A cure to woe, despair, and love." 
 
 XXV. 
 
 He ceas'd — a more than mortal grace 
 Stole o'er the maid's expressive face; 
 Calmly she stood — her steadfast eye 
 On Walbergh's cheek diffus'd the dye 
 Of shame — and ev'ry beam it shed 
 Seem'd to reproach the words he said. 
 
 Within her grotto's deepest shade 
 Emilia's hands a shrine had made, 
 And on the turfy altar plac'd 
 A cross, with flowing- garlands grae'd. 
 In secret here the maiden pray'd 
 Her guardian sninf, her love to aid; 
 
61 
 
 And now before that holy shrine, 
 
 Behold her sylphed form incline; 
 
 Those hands, more white than Parian stone, 
 
 Across her bosom meekly thrown; 
 
 The locks, that o'er that bosom stream, 
 
 Bright glitt'ring in the sunny beam. 
 
 "Oh thou!" she cried, "whose sainted eye 
 Each secret feeling canst descry, 
 Thou know'st that heart, in joy or woe, 
 One only love can ever know. 
 From earliest childhood's happiest day, 
 It strew'd with flowers my lonely way; 
 And think'st thou, I could ever bear 
 His image from my breast to tear? 
 No — though my sire's severe command 
 From Walbergh still withholds my hand, 
 Yet never shall that sun arise, 
 Which sees that hand another's prize. 
 For ever vow'd a spotless maid, 
 I'll seek some cloister's pensive shade, 
 Whose holy roofs for him shall hear, 
 At morn and eve my fervent pray'r, 
 
 G 
 
62 
 
 Till death my parting spirit free, 
 His guardian angel still to be." 
 
 As soft and sweet her accents fell, 
 That vow did every doubt dispel; 
 And brighter beam'd his large dark eye, 
 And at her feet behold him lie, 
 Each jealous passion lull'd to rest 
 Which late disturb'd his throbbing breast; 
 Repentant tears forgiveness claim, 
 And smiles the precious boon proclaim. 
 
 Swift flies the hour — but deeper shades 
 Slow-stealing o'er the green-wood glades, 
 And slanting lines of yellow light 
 That on the pine tops glimmer bright, 
 Warn Walbergh hence — He dares not stay: 
 Yet oft his ling'ring steps delay, 
 Some vow to breathe, some wish to tell, 
 Yet, yet, again, to sigh farewell. 
 'Twere vain to say how lovers part, 
 When mutual anguish rends the heart. 
 Her prayers, Emilia's tears suspend — 
 To ev'ry saint the youth commend. 
 
63 
 
 One kiss, which fervent love reveal'd 
 As e'er a lover's lip impress'd, 
 
 Upon her glowing cheek has seal'd 
 The vows of faith his words expressed. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 He's gone — Emilia marks it not, 
 Her eyes are fix'd upon the spot 
 Where late he stood — Still seems to hear 
 His accents thrilling on her ear, 
 When slowly by the thicket's side 
 His graceful form is seen to glide: 
 A ling'ring look, as on he pass'd, 
 Is tow'rds her grotto's window cast; 
 Then plunging in the briery maze, 
 He mock's Emilia's eager gaze. 
 
 Unheeded moves the waning hour, 
 N*or sees her quit her lonely bow'r; 
 The star of evening rises bright, 
 And evening dews are falling light, 
 By her unmark'd, in sorrow drown'd, 
 When, mid the solitude profound, 
 
64 
 
 jJl step is heard—and through the trees 
 Her father's ancient page she sees, 
 Who came to warn the lovely maid 
 How late the hour to which she stay'd. 
 His voice the waking dream dispell'd 
 That ev'ry sense in bondage held. 
 Pensive she treads the twilight grove, 
 And winds the rocky path above, 
 Where, tow'ring o'er the wood-tops green, 
 The castle's turrets crown the scene, 
 
EMILIA OF LINDINAU; 
 
 OK, 
 
 THE FIELD OF LEIPSIC. 
 CANTO II. 
 
 ■^ OW autumn winds are whistling 1 loud, 
 And drive along the fleecy cloud; 
 And autumn suns with milder beam 
 On mountain, vale, and forest gleam, 
 Whose varied hues more lovely show, 
 Touch'd by an ev'ning's purpling glow. 
 
 O'er the gay land, the jocund train 
 Of health and labour throng the plain; 
 Where, through its ruddy foliage, shine 
 The clusters of the mantling vine. 
 
66 
 
 Beneath the same o'er-arching shade, 
 The sun-burnt youth and ruddy maid, 
 In toil unite, and often prove 
 Occasion sweet to talk of love; 
 The heart's light laugh, from anguish free, 
 And mirth and rustic jollity, 
 Alternate make the moments speed 
 Till ev'ning's cooler hours succeed: 
 Then wakes the dance — the rural song 
 Echoes the greenwood shades among, 
 While sailing o'er the blue profound 
 Pale Cynthia sheds her beams around. 
 
 II. 
 
 Fair scene! — That e'er the steps of war 
 Thy native loveliness should mar, 
 And devastation hov'ring nigh, 
 With haggard mien and scowling eye, 
 Kind nature's choicest blessings blast, 
 And change an Eden to a waste. 
 Alas!**-The fiends, with giant stride, 
 Now range Germania's vallies wide; 
 
67 
 
 From Dresden's plains to Oder's flood 
 Her soil is drench'd with hostile blood; 
 And stretch'd beneath a foeman's brand 
 Her children press their native land. 
 Advent'rous muse! thy flight restrain, 
 Wouldst thou presume, in untaught strain, 
 To sing- of war — The lofty theme 
 Would ill thy gentleness beseem, 
 And critic harsh thy toils repay 
 With censure of an idle lay. 
 Ne'er did heroic deeds inspire 
 A song to grace thy humble lyre* 
 Amidst seclusion's rural shade, 
 At nature's shrine thy vows were paid, 
 In her lone ear thy warblings pour'd, 
 Hail'd the dear pow'r thy strain ador'd. 
 Mean though it were, with magic sway. 
 Oft has it chas'd the clouds away 
 Of pensive thought — and sweetly shed 
 A balm on sorrow's drooping head. 
 For thee, my muse, 'twere ample praise 
 If haply thine inglorious lays, 
 
68 
 
 Some features of her charms might trace, 
 Thy lowly off'rings sought to grace. 
 
 Some mightier bard the tale must tell, 
 How heroes fought, how heroes fell, 
 Contending on Germania's plains 
 For freedom — for a world in chains. 
 Freedom! — that name might sure inspire 
 The coldest breast with patriot fire; 
 And wake some harp, whose sounding strings 
 Were worthy of the theme it sings. 
 
 III. 
 
 Oh, thou of old, whose matchless song 
 Echo'd rude Scio's rocks along; 
 And thou, whom polish'd numbers bore 
 In favouring gales 'long Mincio's shore, 
 Thy tuneful muse thee trembling led, 
 To view the mansions of the dead. 
 Th' unletter'd muse must not essay 
 With names like these to grace her lay; 
 Else would I woo, in humblest train, 
 The classic lyre to wake again, 
 
69 
 
 Which noble as the story told 
 Could melt the rude and awe the bold; 
 And ne'er did earth a scene display 
 More fit to claim poetic lay. 
 No private wrongs— no petty hate, 
 Inspir'd the conflict vast and great; 
 'Tis freedom's cause each bosom warms, 
 And calls assembling hosts to arms: 
 And while the gen'rous breast shall swell 
 On such heroic theme to dwell; 
 While yet one heav'n-born spark betrays, 
 That still her sacred altars blaze, 
 Or faith is priz'd — or country dear, 
 Still shall it love the tale to hear, 
 How fame, with deathless wreathe has bound, 
 Full many a brow by glory crown'd; 
 And trac'd their names on hist'ry's page 
 The wonder of some distant age; 
 Stamp'd by that hand, which yet can give 
 A life* though nature cease to live. 
 First in that glorious list behold 
 The patriot Monarch's name enroll'd;* 
 •Alexander. 
 
70 
 
 And youthful chiefs, and veterans brave, 
 Like Bltjcher, bending tow'rds the grave; 
 Yet strewing still the downward way 
 With laurels lasting, fresh, and gay. 
 
 And shall the muse of Albion shed 
 No tear to consecrate the dead? 
 While soft affection's broken tie 
 With grief o'erflows the swimming eye, 
 One tender drop their shades demand 
 Who press Germania's bloody strand. 
 
 And thou, Mobsatj! whose matchless mind 
 In thee alone a host combin'd, 
 With glowing breast and dewy cheek, 
 Thy lowly bed the muse will seek; 
 No fading flow'rs her hands shall twine, 
 Unmeet for deathless fame like thine; 
 Emblems of life, they fail to show 
 Those deeds which endless life bestow. 
 The star whose bright and beaming rays 
 The midnight vault of heav'n displays, 
 Which blazes still with lustre pure, 
 Though darkness veil and clouds obscure, 
 
71 
 
 Is like thy glory shining- bright, 
 Through envy's shade and death's dark night. 
 Yet many a grave, whose turf is spread 
 O'er breasts which in the fight have bled, 
 Might claim a garland sweet and fair 
 As e'er was twin'd by pity's care; 
 Although for them the bard shall raise 
 No mournful song to tell their praise, 
 Or place the stone, whose massy head 
 In other times their fame might spread; 
 Peace to their souls', and may they prove, 
 The guardians of the land they love; 
 And still on battle plain unite, 
 To watch the hero in the fight. 
 
 Of these no more; my harp again 
 Must idly tune its idle strain. 
 As lark that mounts the rosy cloud, 
 With untaught warblings wild and loud; 
 Tir'd with the flight, in vain would soar, 
 And seek the lowland bowers once more, 
 With weary wing, and painting breast, 
 And sinks upon her humble nest. 
 
73 
 IV. 
 
 In council sage, and bloody field, 
 Bold Lindinau to none might yield; 
 With steady courage, calm, and brave, 
 And prompt to plan, and swift to save; 
 The glory of his youth appears, 
 Eclips'd by that of later years: 
 And oft in council and in fight, 
 Young Walbergh met the Baron's sight; 
 While many a tale his comrades tell 
 Of actions which become him well, 
 And all his watchful eyes behold 
 Of virtue gen'rous, frank, and bold; 
 Had bade his struggling heart confess 
 He lov'd him — if he fear'd him less. 
 No servile art, nor flatt'ry sought, 
 For favour in the Baron's thought; 
 Respect to age and honour due, 
 And ev'ry secret service too; 
 The toils and pains of war might sooth, 
 Were proffer'd by the gallant youth. 
 
73 
 
 And when on Dresden's bloody plain 
 His hand had dropp'd his courser's rein, 
 And o'er th' unconscious vet'ran wav'd 
 The lightning of a Gallic blade, 
 Young Fred'ric saw — his sabre's stroke 
 With ready aim the weapon broke, 
 And pierc'd the arm with desp'rate wound. 
 Had stretch'd him lifeless on the ground; 
 And ere the Baron's words can speak 
 The thanks that flush'd his glowing cheek, 
 He gently bent and turn'd away 
 To mingle in the distant fray. 
 
 Vain were the arduous task to tell, 
 How fields were won and warriors fell; 
 'Tis an old tale, and hacknied long, 
 Has furnish'd frequent theme for song. 
 The same the cares of war — the same 
 The strife for conquest and for fame, 
 And toilsome day, and dreary night, 
 The dangers and the joys of fight; 
 H 
 
74 
 
 And rapine wild, with ruthless hand, 
 To desolate a smiling land, 
 And snatch their gains as lawful spoil 
 From drooping eye and honest toil, 
 Who view with hopeless sorrow's eye 
 Their smoking homes in ruin lie. 
 Such are the marks which still appear, 
 Where war has run his mad career. 
 Poor Saxony! thy fertile plains 
 The demon's path too well retains; 
 Thy golden vales, thy vineyards' pride, 
 By Gallic robbers ravag'd wide; 
 And plundered towns, and hamlet laid 
 In ashes "neath the rural shade, 
 Might stamp thee for a desert spot, 
 That human foot had nigh forgot. 
 
 And now, from Dresden's ancient tow'rs, 
 O'er Leipsic's vale their army pours, 
 And still pursue the foes who wait 
 The moment of approaching fate; 
 Which Europe's lasting freedom gains, 
 Or binds her still in firmer chains. 
 
73 
 VI. 
 
 Far from these scenes of blood and strife, 
 
 Emilia pass'd her guileless life; 
 
 As yet no hostile foot invades 
 
 Her lov'd Bohemia's tranquil shades. 
 
 And ere he went, her sire's command 
 
 Had left behind a trusty band, 
 
 To guard from foes and rapine wild 
 
 His fair domains and darling child: 
 
 For oft those forests vast, he knew, 
 
 Gave refuge to a robber crew; 
 
 And fear'd his absence might be made 
 
 A covert to their lawless trade. 
 
 Vain care! to that sequester'd bow'r 
 Which charm'd Emilia's lonely hour, 
 A stranger's foot unheeded stray'd, 
 And mark'd unseen the lovely maid. 
 'Twas Manfred — not a bolder breast 
 E'er throbb'd beneath an outlaw's vest: 
 From Warsaw's tow'rs to Danube's tide, 
 Long had he rang'd the forests wide, 
 And all the course of law defied. 
 
 } 
 
76 
 
 And now, in hunter's garb of green, 
 Near Lmdinau the chief was seen, 
 With scanty train, who, thus array'd, 
 For game explor'd the thicket's shade. 
 Tir'd with the chase, his fellows all 
 Beyond the hearing of his call; 
 Full long had Manfred sought in vain 
 A passage from the wood to gain. 
 He shouted — not a human sound 
 Broke the still solitude around, 
 Save echo's, that in fainter tone 
 Appear'd to mock him with his own. 
 Low sinks the sun, dark shadows spread 
 O'er the dim forest's dusky head; 
 While thick umbrageous boughs below 
 The dunnest hues of twilight throw. 
 At length, when patience almost o'er, 
 Could sooth the wand'rer's heart no more, 
 Less high the trees their branches rearM, 
 Less close the tangled copse appear'd, 
 And through their boles, with golden beam 
 Apollo shed a parting gleam. 
 
77 
 
 A rill, whose course is only seen 
 From herbage of a livelier green, 
 His steps pursue, and gain the spot, 
 Where stood Emilia's lonely grot. 
 Unseen he view'd the pious fair, 
 Soft breathing forth her ev'ning pray'r, 
 That heav'n from ill and bloody strife, 
 Would shield her Fred'ric's precious life. 
 
 Ne'er had he seen, in happier hour, 
 A form so fair in hall or bow'r; 
 And while he gaz'd, bold Manfred's breast 
 Rude passion's lawless power confess'd: 
 For love — soft feeling's favourite child — 
 Disdains a heart so rude and wild. 
 And well he knew that seraph form 
 An outlaw's hated vows would scorn, 
 Who dar'd, despite of fate, aspire 
 To grandeur's high -born beauteous heir. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Morn broke, and with its dawning sweet 
 Emilia sought her lov'd retreat, 
 K 2 
 
78 
 
 Unthinking that a gnest so rude 
 
 Might on her privacy intrude. 
 
 The dew-drops hung on ev'ry bough, 
 
 And gemra'd the mossy turf below; 
 
 And ev'ry bush, on hill and glade, 
 
 The silken gossamer display'd; 
 
 And fring'd with pearls the larches show 
 
 Their hoary heads the steep below; 
 
 While waken'd by the early day 
 
 Echo'd the lark's aspiring lay. 
 
 Sooth'd by the strain, with lighter tread 
 
 Emilia press'd the dewy mead, 
 
 And russet grove, whose scatter'd trees 
 
 Are waving to the fresh'ning breeze. 
 
 The morn, with fragrance-giving power, 
 Had breath'd on ev'ry sleeping flower, 
 That opening to the balmy air, 
 Demand Emilia's wonted care. 
 Bent with Aurora's glist'ning tears, 
 The drooping stalk she gently rears, 
 And cheers, to wile the moments on, 
 Her sweet employment with a song. 
 
79 
 
 VIII. 
 THE SONG. 
 
 You ask me why the lyre is still, 
 O'er which my hand so often stray'd, 
 
 When, throbbing" wild to pleasure's thrill, 
 My heart responded as I play'd. 
 
 Ah, ask no more—those days are fled, 
 And with them fled the jocund strain; 
 
 Or, like the mem'ry of the dead, 
 It only wakes to waken pain. 
 
 Whene'er the witching lay I hear, 
 Which once each sense in magic boundj 
 
 Remembrance sadly hov'ring near, 
 In ev'ry note inflicts a wound. 
 
 Where is the voice, whose thrilling tone 
 Dissolv'd in softness o'er the lyre, 
 
 And gave a charm, till then unknown, 
 To all the poet's glowing fire* 
 
80 
 
 "Where is the scarcely whisper'd sigh, 
 Which oft the pause of feeling broke; 
 
 The ling'ring gaze, the beaming eye, 
 Where all the soul distinctly spoke? 
 
 Ah! lost to me, I seek in vain 
 
 Some fancied semblance still to view; 
 
 For time can ne'er return again 
 The dream of bliss my fancy drew. 
 
 Then sleep, my lyre — thy sprightly tone 
 Can only mock this pensive breast; 
 
 He, who inspir'd the lay is gone, 
 And let thy strings in silence rest, 
 
 IX. 
 
 The song was hush'd; when loud and shrill, 
 
 A bugle rang from vale to hill, 
 
 And breaking through the copse-wood sprays, 
 
 A hunter meets Emilia's gaze. 
 
 Scarce seems his light elastic tread 
 
 To bend the daisy's dewy head, 
 
81 
 
 And gains, soon pass'd the space between 
 
 The goddess of this silvan scene; 
 
 Who, half-alarm'd at stranger nigh, 
 
 Surveys him with inquiring eye. 
 
 Green was his garb — his trusty gun 
 
 Across his shoulders lightly slung, 
 
 His well-form'd leg with buskins brac*cL 
 
 And cap of fur, and belted waist, 
 
 And slender spear, with iron bound, 
 
 To guide his steps o'er rocky ground* 
 
 I ween that stranger's youthful face, 
 
 A lady's bower would fitly grace; 
 
 That form, in battle's tented field, 
 
 To none in manly bearing yield. 
 
 The golden locks, which shade his brow; 
 
 His cheek, where health's fresh roses glow; 
 
 Th' expression of that dark blue eye, 
 
 Where sense and sadness seem to vie; 
 
 Each look, each gesture, might impart 
 
 An interest to the gazer's heart; 
 
 Who wond'ring stands — while bending low, 
 
 In polish'd phrase his accents flow. 
 
82 
 
 X. 
 
 •fFair being — whether mortal maid, 
 Or genius of this hallow'd shade, 
 Oh! pardon that by want subdu'd 
 My heedless foot should here intrude: 
 A forester (my only name) 
 Thy soft benevolence would claim, 
 Who lost amid these wildwood glades, 
 AVhom famine, thirst, and toil invades, . 
 Implores thee, from yon limpid rill, 
 With kind relief the cup to fill." 
 
 With mute amaze, and pitying breast, 
 Emilia heard the meek request. 
 To guile unknown, no doubt unkind 
 Found entrance in her artless mind: 
 The welcome cup she freely gave, . 
 High sparkling with the crystal wave;. 
 And fruits and cates supply the -board, 
 Cull'd from her wicker basket's hoard. 
 And much she press'd the youth to share 
 The frugal meal he seems to spare; 
 
83 
 
 For oft his rapt attention stray'd 
 From all, save that bewitching maid; 
 Who mark'd upon the stranger's brow 
 A shade of pensiveness or woe, 
 As love or care had dimm'd with tears, 
 The visions of his youthful years. 
 
 Too swift, alas! the moments fly, 
 The sun ascends the morning sky; 
 With mournful smile, and courteous phrase, 
 Again his grateful thanks he pays. 
 "And oh!'* he cries, "if favouring Heav'n, 
 
 E'er granted warmest, purest pray'r, 
 To thee, sweet being, shall be giv'n 
 
 Each form of bliss thy heart can share. 
 May angels still thy steps attend, 
 And still from ev'ry ill defend. 
 And wouldst thou shun a danger near. 
 Oh! fly, nor longer linger here; 
 Nor thus again approach allow 
 To one I know thy secret foe: 
 More wouldst thou learn?— Alas, 'tis vain, 
 I dare not, cannot now explain. 
 
84 
 
 Once more — the needful warning guard, 
 Thy soft compassion's just reward; 
 And when thy orisons ascend, 
 Oh sometimes recollect a friend. 
 Yet stay." The word is scarcely said, 
 E'er from the spot the youth is fled; 
 And ere Emilia can pursue, 
 His form has vanish'd from her view. 
 Full many an hour, by day and night, 
 That stranger haunts her mental sight: 
 She hears a voice, which bids her fly 
 From secret foe and danger nigh; 
 Much marvels at the wondrous tale, 
 And tempts no more her fav'rite vale. 
 
 XL 
 
 Thrice had the beams of morning shone 
 On Lindinau's romantic lawn, 
 And thrice the ev'ning's parting ray 
 Had glitter'd on its towers so grey; 
 The fourth, the sun obscure and red 
 Had sunk beneath the mountain'd head, 
 
85 
 
 And murky clouds ascending high 
 Were gath'ring in the western sky; 
 Night fell — the rain in torrents pour'd, 
 And Elbe's dark wave at distance roar'dj 
 The rising blast, in eddies rude, 
 Howl'd o'er the plain and swept the wood, 
 Bent the tall oak beneath its pow ? r, 
 And from the earth the sapling tore. 
 
 In pensive mood Emilia hears, 
 And shudders with unwonted fears; 
 Her faithful maids assemble all, 
 And gather to the castle hall. 
 T^he flame ascends — a flick'ring ray 
 Dances upon the pillars grey, 
 And banner'd roof, and coat of mail, 
 Show bright beneath the radiance pale; 
 Cheer'd by the beam, Emilia's mind 
 Has left its recent fears behind; 
 Again her lip its smile resumes, 
 And livelier fire her eye illumes; 
 Nor heeds she now the low'ring sky, 
 Nor blast that shakes the casements high; 
 I 
 
86 
 
 Her sprightly harp in merry strain 
 She tunes to please her menial train. 
 And while the dulcet strings resound, 
 In mazy dance they tread the ground. 
 While thus they give the midnight hour 
 To harmless mirth and music's pow'r, 
 Amid the pauses of the gale 
 Wide echoing shrieks their ears assail;- 
 Anon a clam'rous bugle rang, 
 And pistol shot, and weapon's clang, 
 And shout, and voices loud and shrill, 
 Stem ev'ry corridor to fill. 
 
 Fix'd to the spot Emilia stands, 
 Pallid her cheek, and clasp'd her hands; 
 Their trembling forms her damsels fling 
 On earth, and round their mistress cling; 
 When pale in death and stain'd with blood, 
 A faithful page before her stood. 
 
 "Oh, lady, fly!" he could no more, 
 And sunk upon the marble floor. 
 In vain to move the maid essays, 
 Bewilder'd, lost in wild amaze; 
 
87 
 
 Her sinking steps refuse their aid, 
 To bear her to a safer shade. 
 More loud the distant tumult grows, 
 It nears, and shows the ent'ring foes; 
 Through the wide portal, stout and tall, 
 A ruffian band has gain'd the hall; 
 Their naked sabres flash on high, 
 And murder glares in ev'ry eye: 
 Nor yields to them in savage mien, 
 The leader of this fearful scene, 
 Whose waving plume and loud command, 
 Denote him chieftain of the band. 
 With hasty stride he bent his way 
 Where stretch'd on earth Emilia lay, 
 And rais'd and bade his train prepare 
 To bear away the senseless fair. 
 Though foil'd, yet firm, a gallant few, 
 Their scanty force before them threw, 
 And strove with desp'rate aim to bar 
 Their passage from the scene of war: 
 Superior numbers close around, 
 Their bodies strew th' ensanguin'd ground; 
 
88 
 
 The rest secur'd— the ruffian horde 
 The castle wide for spoil explor'd; 
 And all the hand of flight can bear, 
 Is plunder'd from the mansion fair» 
 This done— the base invader flies, 
 Exulting in the ill-got prize. 1 
 
 XII. 
 
 The storm has ceas'd— down ev'ry steep 
 The raging torrents roar and leap; 
 Or, rushing from the mountain's brow, 
 O'erflow the deluged road below: 
 Murmurs the faint and sunken gale 
 Its sighs among the foilage pale; 
 With foaming wave, and swoln with rain, 
 Dark rolls the river through the plain; 
 From billowy clouds, with fitful gleam, 
 Sheds the pale moon her wat'ry beam, 
 And spangles o'er with diamonds bright 
 The dripping bough which bears her light. 
 
 Beneath the ray, o'er Elbe's dark tide, 
 A flitting sail was seen to glide; 
 
89 
 
 And martial band the vessel bore, 
 With arms and garments drench'd in gore: 
 So swift its rapid course they urge, 
 It scarcely cleaves the moonlight surge; 
 Quickly the shadowy shores recede, 
 And other shores and woods succeed; 
 And ere the morn, with dubious light, 
 Has glimmer'd on the mountain's height, 
 Pursuit's swift course had been too late 
 That flying bark to overtake. 
 
 But who is she, so fair and pale, 
 That weeps beneath the spreading sail; 
 Whose beauteous form, and gentle mien, 
 Such rude associates ill beseem?' 
 Dost thou, Emilia, hapless maid, 
 Thus mourn thy innocence, betray'd 
 To ruffian pow'r, which mocks thy woe? 
 For ne'er did sympathy's soft glow 
 Their bosoms warm, whose eyes survey, 
 With savage glance, their shudd'ring prey. 
 Too well have Manfred's words confess'd 
 
 The daring purpose of his breast; 
 i 2 
 
90 
 
 And proud contempt— and horror's start, 
 Alternate thrill Emilia's heart. 
 Appeals for pity were in vain, 
 Reproach her soul can never deign, 
 And all her useless plaints represt, 
 On Heav'n alone her sorrows rest. 
 Plac'd at the vessel's stern, in vain 
 She sought oblivious sleep to gainj 
 And oft her melancholy eyes 
 Are turn'd upon the eastern skies, 
 Impatient till the rising day 
 Shall chase the gloomy clouds away* 
 
 XIII. 
 
 And soon, in palest blue array'd, 
 The clearing heav'ns their arch display'd. 
 The whole horizon overspread, 
 With hues of dim and varying red, 
 Which deepen into warmer glow, 
 As morning sheds her beam below, 
 Till kindling ether blushes bright 
 With rich intensity of light. 
 
n 
 
 It fades, as if in nether sky 
 
 A globe of fire is hung 1 on high, 
 
 Which soon dissolves. — In bright array 
 
 And glory clad, the god of day 
 
 Bursts from behind his curtainM veil, 
 
 And smiles on mountain, stream, and dale. 
 
 That bark pursues its rapid way 
 Through morn, and noon, and ev'ning grey; 
 Vanish Boheamia's shaggy woods, 
 Her mountains wild, and rushing floods; 
 Yet Elbe's sweet waves their burden bear 
 Through glens as green and vales as fair: 
 The plains of Saxony appear, 
 Her purple hills their summits rear; 
 And when dim night her shadows pourM, 
 In rocky cave the bark was moor'd. 
 Wild was the track their steps pursu'd, 
 O'er mountains dreary, bleak, and rude; 
 Nor hut, nor taper's friendly ray, 
 To rest or cheer the lonely way: 
 And dark at length the forests rise, 
 Imbrown'd with autumn's latest dies, 
 
92 
 
 And midnight's deepest gloom pervades 
 The shelter of their awful shades. 
 But soon, like faint and twinkling star, 
 Glimmers a feeble light afar, 
 "Which, when it nears, reveals to view 
 A desert scene and savage crew, 
 As e'er Salvator's pencil drew. 
 Screen'd by a rock, from whose tall head 
 The pendant birch and aspen spread, 
 A band, in hunters' rude attire, 
 Are circling round a blazing fire; 
 And various arms are scatter'd near, 
 The carcasses of slaughter'd deer; 
 And some with skilful hands prepare 
 To dress their ev'ning's sav'ry fare; 
 While others, stretch'd the earth along, 
 Quaff the deep draught and troll the song. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 A sudden blast, by Manfred blown, 
 
 Their comrade's near approach made known; 
 
 } 
 
And round the chief, with clamour loud 
 
 And joyous mien, the strangers crowd; 
 
 Who many a welcome kind repeat, 
 
 Scarce heard by him whom thus they greet: 
 
 "Where's Osmond?"— "In the deli below 
 
 He watches, lest unlook'd-for foe — " 
 
 Stern Manfred's glance his words suppress'*!* 
 
 And calls the speaker from the rest. 
 
 The pinewood fire, which flashing red, 
 
 On rock and glen a lustre shed, 
 
 And quiver'd with uncertain ray, 
 
 On forest bough, and brushwood spray; 
 
 With brighter beam, the group displays, 
 
 Who now enjoy its cheering blaze. 
 
 The robbers round their fellows throng 
 
 To list the story loud and long, 
 
 Of Lindinau's eventful night, 
 
 And all th' adventures of the fight. 
 
 With fearful looks, and trembling frame, 
 Emilia sat beside the flame, 
 Which o'er her form and features threw 
 A shadowy light and pallid hue. 
 
94 
 
 Chill'd by the nightblast, faint, and low, 
 Her spirits sunk beneath their woe; 
 No sympathizing friend was nigh 
 To wipe the tear-drop from her eye; 
 And thoughts of love, and days more fair, 
 But added pangs to her despair. 
 
 At length, his private counsels laid, 
 
 Again stern Manfred sought the maid; 
 
 And bade a band of chosen men 
 
 Attend them to the secret glen, 
 
 Through shades, which e'en in glare of day 
 
 Had shed around a twilight grey. 
 
 They wind, and scarce their way descry, 
 
 Beneath the pale moon rising high, 
 
 Which gleam'd on rocks gigantic pil'd, 
 
 That frown above the lonely wild, 
 
 And dimly show'd a ruin'd tow'r 
 
 Just peeping o'er the piny bow'r. 
 
 The rock is scal'd, the portal past, 
 
 That tow'r receives the train at last. 
 
95 
 
 But whence the start — the dire dismay- 
 Emilia's shrinking looks display? 
 Is it that dreary pile appals, 
 Its shatter'd roof and mould'ring walls, 
 Lit by a torch, whose lonely beam 
 Sheds on their path a lurid gleam; 
 Or night-bird's note, which flits around 
 And skrieks at human sight or sound; 
 Or gestures of the savage band, 
 Who round their chief subservient stand? 
 
 No, 'twas a form her eye survey'd 
 Within an oriel's distant shade. 
 Full oft had fancy giv'n to view 
 Those golden locks and eyes of blue; 
 Yet deems she now that cheek more pale 
 Than erst, when fann'd by morning gale. 
 She mark'd it first — that eye appears 
 By sickness dimm'd or quench'd by tears, 
 And seem'd as traits of deeper woe 
 Were stamp'd upon that polish'd brow. 
 
 The footsteps of the ent'ring throng, 
 Pacing the chequer'd floor along, 
 
96 
 
 Awoke from melancholy trance, 
 And fix'd the stranger's furtive glance^ 
 While signs of horror, grief, and dread. 
 O'er ev*ry changing feature sped. 
 Emilia mark'd his frenzied eye, 
 Hove o'er her form in agony; 
 A ling'ring look, as 'twere his last, 
 Pursu'd her steps as on she pass'd; 
 But word of courtesy or sooth 
 Ne'er greets her from that stranger youth 3 
 Nor aught to those around betrays 
 That they had met in brighter days, 
 
 XVI. 
 
 The morn with golden dawning rose 
 And chas'd Emilia's short repose, 
 And call'd her to the lattice high, 
 Which open'd to the eastern sky, 
 To woo the breeze, that softly shed 
 O'er her pale cheek a livelier red; 
 When thrust beneath her prison doo-r 
 <V scroll is push'd along the floor. 
 
97 
 
 Which bears upon its snowy face 
 These words emotion cannot trace. 
 
 "Oh, lady, if thy gentle breast, 
 E'er meurn'd humanity distress'd, 
 Be now thy heav'nly feeling shown, 
 Nor harshly judge a wretch unknown; 
 Nor deem because my wayward fate 
 Has doom'd me here an outlaw's mate, 
 My heart ne'er felt compassion's thrill, 
 Nor shudder'd at the thought of ill, 
 Nor knew stern honour's sacred flame, 
 Nor wept at woe, nor blush'd at shame. 
 Let this convince — I sought too late 
 To save thee from impending fate; 
 And though my purpose fail'd— yet know, 
 Osmond can never be thy foe. 
 
 "Could I reveal my hapless tale, 
 Thy pity might o'er doubt prevail; 
 But danger threats— ^nor dare I now 
 Admission to the fiend allow. 
 For thee — let courage still sustain 
 Thy soul through ev'ry sense of pain. 
 
Nor e'er let pleading or command, 
 For Manfred gain thy shrinking hand; 
 Osmond shall still thy steps attend, 
 And prove perhaps a secret friend." 
 Full oft these lines Emilia views, 
 And hope again her bosom woos; 
 Hope — which a grief-consoling pow'r 
 Has lent to cheer our darkest hour, 
 And steal, from fancy's meteor ray, 
 A beam to gild some distant day. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 F/en in this terror-shedding pile 
 The maiden bless'd her genial smile, 
 Which bghten'd many a moment drear, 
 And lull'd the throbs of grief and fear; 
 Nor Manfred's hateful vows of love 
 The firmness of her soul could move , 
 Which, unsubdu'd by wayward fate 
 Despis'd his suit, and dar'd his hate. 
 A form unseen, though hov'ring nigh, 
 Re-echo'd oft her secret sigh; 
 
99 
 
 And well was Osmond's care repaid, 
 If haply, through the lattice shade, 
 A momentary glance he caught 
 Of her who charm'd his ev'ry thought. 
 
 'Tis midnight — Labour's weary head 
 Reclines beneath the rural shed; 
 And o'er his couch soft slumber flings 
 His dews, and spreads his downy wings. 
 
 E'en the poor sea boy, spent and pale, 
 No longer lists the singing gale; 
 The balmy pow'rs his eyelids close, 
 And visions, sweet as his repose, 
 Restore the joys of former hours, 
 His native land, and rural bow'rs; 
 Ah! doom'd to find with morning's beam 
 That happiness is but a dream. 
 Dull night!— Though sleep refuse to spread 
 His poppy buds on sorrow's bed, 
 Yet well she loves thy gloomy reign, 
 Congenial to her bosom's pain, 
 And wakes with pining lore to bless 
 Thy still and soothing loveliness. 
 
100 
 
 And many a time had Osmond woo*d 
 The hour of midnight solitude, 
 And watch'd the lamp, whose waining light 
 Denotes its melancholy flight, 
 As poring o'er some antique page, 
 The record of a former age; 
 In such employ, he sought to shun 
 Thought, that suits not a breast undone. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 The book is clos'd, his weary frame 
 Must yield at length to nature's claim; 
 But hark! what shriek, so loud and shrill, 
 Seems all the lonely tow'r to fill. 
 Again 'tis heard, and yet again, 
 Announces terror, woe, or pain. 
 Too well does Osmond's heart declare 
 Whence come these sounds of wild despair; 
 And wing'd by fraatic fear he flies, 
 To where Emilia meets his eyes. 
 Her slender form, with giant clasp, 
 Encircled by a ruffian's grasp! 
 
101 
 
 'Tis Manfred, whose vindictive blade 
 Is rais'd above the helpless maid! 
 "Turn, villain! turn!" a sudden blow, 
 Has laid his shiver'd weapon low; 
 And Osmond's voice, in tone of strife, 
 Now warns to guard his threaten'd life. 
 Like lion pierc'd by hunter's spear, 
 Who wakes at sense of danger near, 
 Bold Manfred turns — revengeful ire 
 Flash'd from his eyes indignant fire. 
 *'Ah, ingrate! dar'st thou raise thy hand?" 
 "Forbear thy taunts, and grasp thy brand." 
 They face — they fight — their weapons' clan: 
 Through the wide vaulted chamber rang. 
 Long was the strife, but Osmond's glave, 
 Inspir'd by her he came to save, 
 To Manfred's breast a passage found, 
 And life is ebbing through the wound. 
 Yet e'en in death vindictive still, 
 With dying hand he strove to kill; 
 And while with pity's gentle care 
 Young Osmond sought his foe to spare, 
 k2 
 
- 102 
 
 In secret aim'd— a dagger's blow 
 Had stretch'd him by that ruthless foe. 
 But one, who trembles by his side, 
 The glitt'ring point has turn'd aside, 
 And grasp'd his arm — "Oh, witch, accursed!'* 
 From Manfred's lips convulsive burst. 
 Death stopp'd the sentence as it pass'd. 
 That fearful groan — It was his last! 
 
 XIX 
 
 Pale as the sculptur'd form above, 
 The last retreat of care and love, 
 Emilia stood beside the dead, 
 With mingling looks of joy and dread, 
 As dubious still to hope or fear, 
 The stroke of fate she saw so near. 
 But Osmond's words her doubts repress'd, 
 And gently sooth'd her sobbing breast, 
 And check'd the grateful tears which tell 
 What nought beside can speak so well, 
 Those falling drops by woman shed, 
 Full many a captur'd heart have led. 
 
103 
 
 «'Oh, lady! cease," young Osmond said, 
 "Nor thus extol my willing aid; 
 So dark my fate has been till now, 
 So full my catalogue of woe, 
 I never thought one sunny ray, 
 Would e'er illume my earthly day; 
 Ungrateful! — since reserv'd for me, 
 That dearest bliss — to succour thee. 
 
 "An exile from my fellow men, 
 And pent within an outlaw's den, 
 Stung by a world, which yet I deem 
 Beneath me, humbled as I seem, 
 E'en here, by malice' shafts pursu'd 
 My spirit crush 'd, but not subdu'd, 
 One magic charm shall still impart 
 A rapture to my writhing heart; 
 Be as it may, my lot decreed, 
 . This happy hand Emilia freed. 
 But, for I know not yet my fate, 
 Thou must not here the issue wait. 
 And wilt thou deign— thy faithful guide, 
 Still for thy safety shall provide; 
 
104 
 
 But moments speed— and dawning day 
 Endangers now our further stay.'* 
 
 With tender care the maid he led 
 Through paths with fallen ruins spread, 
 And dreary vault— and cavern lone, 
 Where beam of morning never shone; 
 And bursting through a tangled wood, 
 That wav'd above the rushing flood, 
 They gain'd a hut, whose lowly wall 
 Scarce gleams between the coppice tall. 
 
 XX. 
 
 "Here, thou art safe, no ruffian's blade 
 Will dare approach this quiet shade, 
 But rustic worth thy couch prepare, 
 And tend thee with maternal care. * 
 Oh! now farewell — if life be spar'd, 
 Osmond shall still Emilia guard. 
 But should I fall, a trusty mate 
 Shall bring thee tidings of my fate, 
 With something from my scanty store, 
 To bear thee to a happier shore; 
 
 
105 
 
 Be ev'ry blessing there thy lot, 
 I only ask, forget me not." 
 
 'Tis morn; th' assembled brigands wait, 
 Unconscious of their leader's fate! 
 He comes not— ere the cause they know- 
 Conjecture darkens ev'ry brow; 
 When Osmond through the circle press'd, 
 With naked blade and sanguin'd vest. 
 Reserv'd, and prone to lonely thought, 
 Not oft their social hour he sought; 
 And when they met, his frigid air, 
 Which something hid they might not share, 
 The beam that through his eye-lash stole, 
 Revealed such loftiness of soul, 
 A glance, so fraught with proud disdain, 
 It overaw'd the servile train. 
 And yet though few — his words express 
 So much of courteous gentleness; 
 So well he knew, with happy skill, 
 To seize and fix the heart at will, 
 Not one of all that hardy crew 
 But inly fear'd, and lov'd him too. 
 
106 
 
 There was a magic in his smile, 
 
 Might e'en ferocity beguile, 
 
 And like a gem beyond compare, 
 
 More highly priz'd because 'twas rare. 
 
 His mind with native genius glow'd, 
 
 To soar above and lead the crowd; 
 
 And head to plan, and hand to dare, 
 
 Then scorn'd the dear-bought spoil to share. 
 
 By these, e'en to himself unknown, 
 
 So strong was Osmond's influence grown, 
 
 That even envy blush'd to feel 
 
 The secret pangs her looks reveal. 
 
 And now, with calm undaunted mien, 
 He stood — the hero of the scene; 
 And hush'd suspense, and wonder hung, 
 In mute attention on his tongue. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 "Friends — comrades — view this crimson br 
 'Tis Manfred's blood — shed by my hand: 
 Nay, start not — 'twas a noble deed, 
 Might save my soul in greatest need; 
 
107 
 
 For aught to gen'rous manhood dear, 
 
 Will helpless woman's form revere: 
 
 By nature weak, and fearful made, 
 
 She leans upon our strength for aid, 
 
 And well the kind protection pays, 
 
 With love, and confidence, and praise; 
 
 Anger relents before her eye, 
 
 And sympathy responds her sigh: 
 
 E'en we, who reckon man our foe, 
 
 Must woman's sacred claims allow. 
 
 But Manfred's soul, disdain'd the art 
 
 To reconcile a timid heart, 
 
 And vex'd his boist'rous wooing wrought 
 
 So lightly on the maid he sought, 
 
 He basely rais'd his recreant knife 
 
 Against her unprotected life. 
 
 My hand restrain'd th' unmanly blow, 
 
 And bade him seek a nobler foe; 
 
 And self-defence, compell'd the deed 
 
 Which gave our chieftain's breast to bleed. 
 
 Such is my crime — and now I wait 
 
 Expectant on the voice of fate. 
 
108 
 
 Is here a heart, that would not scorn, 
 To mangle such celestial form; 
 Or brand, with everlasting" shame, 
 By act so foul, a soldier's name? 
 Let him come forth — a murd'rer's meed 
 On Osmond's head be then decreed." 
 
 XXII. 
 
 He ceas'd — and gath'ring murmurs ran 
 
 From rank to rank — from man to man, 
 
 And many a dark suspicious look 
 
 That dauntless soul perchance had shook; 
 
 But she, who might awake the thrill 
 
 Is safe — he fears no future ill. 
 
 And now the elders of the band, 
 
 Have ta'en apart their cautious standj 
 
 High was the theme of long debate, 
 
 On which the hardy vet'rans sate: 
 
 And when young Osmond rais'd his head, 
 
 The steadfast gaze which meets his own, 
 Seems to declare whate'er is said, 
 
 That thought is fixed on him alone. 
 
109 
 
 They rise — in accents loud and brief 
 Their mingled voices hail him chief, 
 And shouts, that echo through the hall, 
 Proclaim their wish, the wish of all. 
 Stunn'd by the sound — he yet believes 
 That some vain dream his sense deceives; 
 A thousand varying passions press 
 That bosom, late so passionless; 
 Or sway'd at most by one — where now 
 Emotion's swelling tides o'erflow! 
 Yet calm he seems. — A sudden thought, 
 As if by inspiration caught, 
 Gave to his changing brow once more, 
 The chilling air it always wore. 
 And though his graceful form inclin'd, 
 The body bent, but not the mind — 
 Few were the words in which he strove 
 To thank his boist'rous comrades' love; 
 Yet studied phrase had fail'd to tell 
 The tale of gratitude so well. 
 
 "Nor think," he says, "because my voice, 
 Would now decline your gen'rous choice, 
 
 L 
 
110 
 
 I feel not all the honour, meant 
 
 By those that spoke the kind intent. 
 
 But, mark me, when from motive good, 
 
 My hand was stain'd by Manfred's blood, 
 
 I sought not favour in your eyes, 
 
 Or wish'd upon his fall to rise. 
 
 We once were friends — had been so yet — 
 
 The greatful heart can ne'er forget — 
 
 But insult burst the bonds in twain, 
 
 No future time could join again; 
 
 Yet still, in duty's path untir'd, 
 
 No vengeful thought my bosom fir'd; 
 
 And faithful— but I trifle here, 
 
 Not this the theme you ought to hear. 
 
 My hand destroy'd — and were I now 
 
 To fill the place your votes bestow, 
 
 Suspicion's wisp'ring breath might rise, 
 
 To blast me with malignant lies; 
 
 Nor could I brook, unmov'd and tame, 
 
 That such should rest on Osmond's name!" 
 
 More high the rising tumult grew, 
 Th' applauding band their shouts renew; 
 
Ill 
 
 And vows of service, faith, and truth, 
 Assail the agitated youth, 
 Who vainly seeks the tide to stay, 
 Which bears down all that bars its way. 
 
 XXIIL 
 
 "I yield— but first a boon I crave, 
 
 The dearest mortal ever gave, 
 
 She, whom your chieftain's hand set free, 
 
 No more must know captivity. 
 
 Then grant a force, to guard afar 
 
 The lovely maid through scenes of war, 
 
 Myself their head — Emilia's word, 
 
 Is pledge for safety and reward; 
 
 This act my given faith secures, 
 
 And seals me all, and ever yours." 
 
 Freely they grant the boon he claim'd, 
 The hour is set — the band are nam'd, 
 And ev'ry duty duly paid, 
 And parting, charge, and greeting said; 
 He calls his train — and hastes away 
 To her who chides his long delay. 
 
112 
 
 The eve had touch'd with golden hue, 
 The pine-tree top and mountain blue, 
 And seated near a babbling brook, 
 The anxious maid her station took, 
 Where since the sun's meridian tide, 
 She wept and pray'd the stream beside. 
 Young Osmond sees — with eager care 
 He flies'to greet the trembling fairj 
 Her re-assures — and speaks of home, 
 Exulting friends, and joys to come; 
 Till ev'ry tender fear is cfyang'd 
 To grateful joy, for freedom gain'd; 
 And beams again that lustrous eye, 
 And pleasure's bright enliv'ning dye 
 On that pale cheek more freshly glows, 
 Where lilies mourn'd their banish'd rose. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 Full oft, in lordly hall and bower, 
 Had Osmond bow'd to beauty's power, 
 And hung, in melting rapture's trance, 
 On ev'ry soul-subduing glance; 
 
113 
 
 But ne'er had beauty's witching 1 smile, 
 Alluring glance, or artful wile, 
 Awoke those pangs, whose wild control 
 Now rudely sway'd his madd'ning soul. 
 Unknown — unshar'd — nor fancy came 
 To feed with hope the secret flame. 
 Yet still he priz'd the treach'rous guest, 
 That prey'd upon his bosom's rest. 
 Ah, ask not why? By fate pursu'd, 
 And stung by scorn and insult rude, 
 That frozen heart had long been steel'd, 
 And feeling's throbbing pulse congeal'd; 
 Love came, like breath of genial spring, 
 And fann'd it with his glowing wing; 
 Thaw'd the cold ice, and woke again 
 The mingling thrill of joy and pain; 
 And all the waken'd sense can meet, 
 Compar'd to apathy, is sweet. 
 
 But now the swift declining light, 
 Forbids their further course to-night; 
 The cotter deck'd her humble board, 
 With pain, but welcome viands stor'd, 
 L 2 
 
114 
 
 And trimm'd the fire, and kindly spread 
 The couch, to rest Emilia's head. 
 While Osmond still his vigils keeps, 
 Nor soft repose his senses steeps. 
 The glories of the midnight sky, 
 That blaze on his uplifted eye, 
 The breeze, which sunk and moaning faint, 
 Is like the voice of hush'd complaint, 
 The musing solitary cheer, 
 And sound like music in his ear; 
 But dimmer burn the heav'nly fires, 
 And Hesper's trembling beam expires. 
 
 Morn breaks through orient clouds again, 
 And treads on night's receding train. 
 
EMILIA OF LINDINAU; 
 
 OR, 
 
 THE FIELD OF LEIPSIC. 
 CANTO III. 
 
 I. 
 
 JL HE sun has chas'd the mists away, 
 Which late obscur'd the rising day; 
 And doubtful gleams the mountain's side, 
 Through fleecy volumes rolling wide, 
 And shows the woodland's shady scene, 
 In varied hues of russet green, 
 While all-reviving nature pays 
 A gen'ral song of grateful praise. 
 
 The beam of morn, which brightly fell 
 On forest dark and rocky dell, 
 
116 
 
 Behold the band their route pursue, 
 O'er gorse and heather, wet with dew; 
 While glitter' d to the golden ray, 
 Their flashing arms and banners gay, 
 And crimson plumes, which stream behind, 
 Wave briskly to the passing wind. 
 Such marshal guise their leader chose, 
 To screen and g-uard from foreign foes, 
 Who, scatter'd o'er this land of strife, 
 Endanger'd liberty and life. 
 
 Close wrapp'd in flowing-sable vest, 
 To shield from chilling gales her breast, 
 Emilia rode by Osmond's side, 
 Who ev'ry soft attention tried 
 To please; and while the tale he told 
 Of hapless love, or valour bold, 
 Or bade her raptur'd eye survey 
 The beauties of the winding* way, 
 Her bosom glow'd — (to all unknown 
 The secret pangs which rent his own;) 
 But when, her glances thrown aside, 
 Had wander'd from her courteous guide, 
 
117 
 
 His eager ling'ring gaze snrvey'd, 
 Unmark'd by her, the lovely maid, 
 Hung on the witching, smile that shed 
 Its magic o'er her lip of red, 
 Drank from her dark and melting eye, 
 Wild hope and thrilling ecstacy, 
 Nor thought that ere the close of day, 
 His dream of bliss must pass away. 
 
 Won by the kind assiduous art, 
 Which woke to confidence her heart, 
 Emilia talks in freer strain 
 Of former scenes, of joy, and pain: 
 And though no timid word reveals. 
 The gentle flame her bosom feels, 
 A lover's eye the tale has read, 
 In cheek with mantling blushes spread, 
 Whene'er she names with falt'ring voice 
 The object of her early choice: 
 O'erwhelm'd, dismay'd — yet Osmond strove 
 To hide the pangs of fruitless love, 
 And sought in solitude to school 
 His struggling heart to reason's rule. 
 
118 
 
 Dare he, who ow'd no kindred claim, 
 Unknown to pomp, to pow'r, to fame, 
 And vow'd the mate, by many a tie, 
 Of danger, spoil, and infamy — 
 Dare he to love? From him, the tale 
 Had turn'd the cheek of woman pale. 
 The wolf, which bays the rising moon, 
 The bird that shuns the beam of noon, 
 As well might dream of love — as breast 
 So wild, so wretched, so oppress'd. 
 
 But yet his bosom proudly swell'd, 
 Though fate the soft return withheld; 
 'Twas his in friendship's guise to show 
 Affection's warmest, purest glow, 
 And guard th' unconscious object still 
 From ev'ry threat'ning form of ill; 
 To dear colloquial joys restore, 
 And love and native home once more; 
 And when he saw her matchless charms 
 Consigned to bless another's arms, 
 Far from the lovely ruin fly, 
 And hopeless, uncomplaining, die! 
 
dl9 
 II. 
 
 Day smil'd farewell; and evening still 
 
 So gently fell on vale and hill, 
 
 That scarcely seem'd its breath to move 
 
 The foliage of th' autumnal grove. 
 
 So hush'd, so soft — the soothing calm 
 
 Might e'en the breast of savage charm. 
 
 And while with measur'd foot they tread 
 
 The copse-wood path, with leaves o'erspread. 
 
 In silence sunk, the martial band 
 
 Seem'd aw'd, as by enchanter's hand. 
 
 "Lead to yon glen," their chieftain cries; 
 
 "Who mark'd Emilia's languid eyes, 
 
 And saw her spirits sought in vain 
 
 The woman's weakness to sustain. 
 
 Midst rocks, from whose stupendous brow 
 A thousand limpid torrents flow, 
 A lake extends, whose glassy tide 
 Reflects the crags which crown its side; 
 And round its mossy banks is seen 
 A glen so lonesome, wild, and green, 
 
120 
 
 That seem'd as fairy hands had made 
 And haunted still the lovely glade. 
 Along" the margin of the lake, 
 The martial band their station take; 
 And shelter'd by a distant cave, 
 Wash'd by the water's murm'ring wave, 
 Of heath and moss, young Osmond spread 
 Emilia's soft and fragrant bed; 
 For her prepar'd with tend'rest care, 
 The choicest of their evening fare: 
 And when her beauteous form is laid 
 Secure beneath the humble shade, 
 Plac'd at the narrow ent'rance, keeps 
 His watchful station while she sleeps. 
 
 III. 
 
 Short was the kind repose which came 
 To renovate her wearied frame, 
 A fearful dream her slumbers broke, 
 And starting from her couch, she woke 
 And saw, beneath the wan moonlight, 
 That gleam'd on glen and water bright, 
 
121 
 
 Young Osmond, wakeful and alone, 
 Extended on his bed of stone; 
 While o'er the chieftain's drooping head 
 One beaming" star its lustre shed, 
 And sigh'd amid his golden locks, 
 The blast that swept along the rocks. 
 A voice, whose magic tones respire 
 The sweetness of Eolian lyre, 
 
 9 
 
 In murmurs faint, as if from fear, 
 Breath'd softly on his list'ning ear: 
 — "'Tis but a dream, and thou art here! 
 I saw thee where, on bloody plain, 
 Were stretch'd the wounded and the slain, 
 And din of battle won and lost, 
 And hot pursuit, and routed host, 
 Seem'd ev'ry shrinking sense to fright: 
 When, foremost in the ranks of fight, 
 I mark'd thy course, while flash'd afar 
 Thy sabre mid the growing war, 
 Sudden a misty veil o'erspread 
 The fearful scene of blood and dread: 
 M 
 
132 
 
 Alone, and bleeding on- the heath, 
 
 T saw the in the arms of death, 
 
 While the chill *blkst, with plaintive moan, 
 
 Responded to thy dying groan: 
 
 lious'd by the sound I woke, to find 
 
 'Twas but a phantom of the mind." 
 
 She ceas'd, and o'er her cheeks' fresh rose 
 Th' unconscious tear unheeded flows; 
 And play'd round Osmond's lip, the while, 
 A transient, melancholy smile, 
 As bending o'er t^te:hand he held, 
 A struggling sigh he faintly fyuell'd. 
 — " 'Tis but a dream! — Should-Heav'n assign 
 Such glorious end to life like mine, 
 Still on my latest hour shall wait 
 A bliss defying death and fate: 
 Emilia's sympathizing tear 
 Has hallow'd e'en an outlaw's bier. 
 No charm for me can life bestow, 
 Like that blest scene which ends its woe; 
 For still my fate has torn away 
 Each flow'r of joy which strew'd my way; 
 
123 
 
 And now my youthful span half run 
 Has cast me out a wretch undone. 
 But ere my parted soul removes, 
 From all that censures, fears, or loves, 
 My trembling- lips would fain relate 
 "What brought me to this humbled state; 
 That when you hear, in after times, 
 The tale of Osmond's deeds and crimes, 
 Your gentle voice may deign to tell, 
 How thus the erring wand'rer fell." 
 
 IV. 
 
 OSMOND'S HISTORY. 
 
 "The sun which saw my eyes unclose, 
 On tow'ring Alps and Glaciers rose, 
 Whose snow-clad tops their shadows throw, 
 O'er fairy vales which smile below, 
 Where Uri's dark blue waters glide, 
 And lave their shores with swelling pride. 
 A mother's care, a sire's caress, 
 Did ne'er my growing childhood bless; 
 
124 
 
 Yet mem'ry's earliest dawn can trace 
 The semblance of an angel's face, 
 Which often o'er my infant head 
 The tears of silent sadness shed; 
 And once, when to her side I crept, 
 And lisping question'd, why she wept? 
 *Go ask thy sire,' she cried, 'whose art 
 Betray^ an unsuspecting heart, 
 And doom'd thy innocence forlorn, 
 To shame, and poverty, and scorn.' 
 
 "Short was affection's cheering gleam, 
 Which vanish'd like a midnight dream: 
 She died, ere yet my mind conceiv'd 
 The fatal stroke which thus bereav'd. 
 In vain remembrance loves to dwell, 
 Upon a mother's last farewell; 
 Some faded images retain 
 A place on this bewilder'd brain, 
 But indistinct and faint, like those 
 Which haunt the visions of repose. 
 I saw her lifeless form convey'd, 
 And laid beneath the willow shade,- 
 
125 
 
 And when the pangs of riper years 
 Had op'd the source of sorrow's tears, 
 Stole o'er the sacred spot to weep, 
 At twilight dawn, or midnight deep. 
 
 "Close by our cot, an ancient sage 
 Had rais'd his straw-built hermitage, 
 Whom oft my mother press'd to share 
 Our humble shed and frugal fare, 
 Whene'er he bent his lonely way, 
 To meditate at closing day. 
 Of him, ere life's last sand was run, 
 She claim'd protection for her son; 
 And when, her secret woes at rest, 
 A cold turf wrapp'd her gentle breast, 
 He bore me to his rude abode, 
 And all a parent's fondness show'd. 
 
 "Midst nature's grandeur, stern and wild, 
 Was rear'd the solitary child; 
 No glitt'ring toy my eye admir'd, 
 No vulgar sports my fancy fir'd; 
 Mine were the charms of foaming floods, 
 Of Alpine steeps, of rocks, and woods. 
 
 M 2 
 
126 
 
 My only joy, at evening pale, 
 Soft warbled on the mountain gale, 
 An oaten-pipe, as wild and clear 
 As ever breath'd on mortal ear. 
 
 "With patient care, my guardian kind> 
 To knowledge train'd my opening mind. 
 Which hung enraptur'd on his store, 
 Of ancient legendary lore, 
 Till waken'd, at the kindling theme, 
 The young enthusiast's charmful dream. 
 
 "Misjudging sage! in hapless hour, 
 Thy pupil woo'd instruction's power; 
 By her, my soothing soul, refin'd, 
 Spurn'd at the lot which fate assign'd, 
 And ev'ry sense, with keener thrill, 
 More widly throbb'd at joy or ill. 
 Ambition came-*and tore away 
 The peace which gilt my early day; 
 With hopeless, madd'ning visions fraught, 
 She rous'd my proud, aspiring thought, 
 Till kindling fancy held, as true, 
 The lofty scenes her pencil drew. 
 
127 
 V. 
 
 "From man rctir'd, the life I led 
 
 My visionary musings fed; 
 
 No friend in social bonds allied, 
 
 E'er held communion by my side, 
 
 Or pour'd his sorrows on my ear, 
 
 Or dropp'd for mine the pitying" tear. 
 
 Romantic, shy — the wond'ring swain, 
 
 Ne'er saw me join the village train, 
 
 Who hail'd each rustic holiday, 
 
 With carols blithe, and pastimes gay. 
 
 Remote from all, I mourn'd my fate, 
 
 To rocks, and things inanimate; 
 
 Or wild bird sweet, or mountain deer, 
 
 That graz'd my path unknown to fear, 
 
 And seem'd, so dreaming thought believ'd, 
 
 To list and pity, while I griev'd. 
 
 "Time roll'd along, and still deni'd 
 The scenes for which my bosom sigh'd; 
 Dark melancholy's deepest spell, 
 On ev'ry sick'ning feeling fell; 
 
128 
 
 Sketch'd by her hand, more black appea» 
 The 'colour of my future years;' 
 Wither'd beneath her harsh control, 
 Each livelier energy of soul, 
 And shudd'ring on the giddy brink, 
 My tott'ring reason seem'd to sink. 
 
 «<My guardian mark'd with secret pain, 
 And sought my confidence to gain, 
 And ev'ry struggling wish reveal'd, 
 So long in proud reserve conceal'd; 
 He smiling cried, 'thy cares be o'er, 
 Let hope thy mental peace restore; 
 The world, which charms thy youthful breast, 
 Shall hail thee a delighted guest; 
 And he, whose voice did first inspire 
 Thy young ambition's wild desire, 
 Shall every kind exertion lend, 
 To gain thee there a tender friend; 
 And mayst thou, on that busy stage, 
 Where care, and crime, and discord rage, 
 Ne'er mourn, with sad repentant tear, 
 The guileless joys which bless'd thee here.' 
 
429 
 
 "I will not swell a worthless theme, 
 With aught thou wouldst superfluous deem, 
 Nor paint the rapt delight I felt, 
 As prostrate at his feet I knelt; 
 What streams of grateful fondness flow'd, 
 What kind advice the sage bestow'd; 
 Nor tell the heartless pangs I knew, 
 When spoke the ling'ring, sad adieu 
 Of him, whose care my childhood rear'd, 
 Whose wisdom taught, and love endear'd: 
 Thy feeling heart will better guess, 
 Than words of mine the tale express. 
 
 VI. 
 
 "Where proud Vienna's spires arise; 
 And glitter in the azure skies, 
 A friendly dome its shelter spread, 
 To shield the bold adventurer's head, 
 And generous feeling worth bestow'd, 
 The only bliss by fate allow'd. 
 Light were the tasks my patron deign'd, 
 And sweet the kind rewards obtain'd. 
 
130 
 
 ' Twas mine to tend his lordly state, 
 
 On all his idle hours to wait, 
 
 To turn the page, with skillful hand 
 
 To wake the chord, at his command; 
 
 And then, my gentle service done, 
 
 Companion of his only son, 
 
 In ev'ry graceful pleasure share, 
 
 That wealth can give or taste prepare. 
 
 "Yet here, to splendid scenes remov'd, 
 Not unalloy'd the joys I prov'd; 
 No kind congenial nature charm'd, 
 No smile of love my bosom warm'd. 
 Young Roderic, selfish, wild, and rude, 
 The slave of passions unsubdu'd, 
 Too keenly made me feel the smart 
 Which rends the proud and sentient heart; 
 Compell'd, with silent scorn, to bear 
 What noble minds had taught to spare; 
 Neglect, and inuendo sly, 
 The taunt which mocks at poverty, 
 And all that gives the breast to know 
 Dependance deep, and bitter woe. 
 
131 
 
 "Long did my swelling 1 bosom hide 
 The rankling wounds of humbled pride, 
 Long veil'd in meek submission's guise, 
 The hate which fir'd my kindling eyes; 
 By sacred gratitude withheld, 
 The wakening wish of vengeance quell'd, 
 While pleasure's maddening bowl I quaflf'd, 
 And sought oblivion in the draught. 
 
 VII. 
 
 "One fatal eve — ah, had it been 
 The one which clos'd my earthly scene! 
 Inflam'd with wine, by insult stung, 
 From Roderic's festal board I flung; 
 My thoughts in wildest tumult tost, 
 The guiding light of reason lost, 
 A thousand schemes my fancy mov'd, 
 By turn rejected and approv'd; 
 Night wan'd, and twilight's dusky ray 
 Was bright'ning into infant day, 
 When Roderic to my chamber rush'd, 
 With cheek by midnight orgies flush'd. 
 
" 'Ah, thou art here! — How dar'dst thou, slave. 
 Presume thy lord's commands to brave? 
 Why quit his bord? — Long- did I mark 
 Thy louring eye, and gestures dark; 
 Such haughty mien becomes not thee, 
 Poor child of shame and infamy!' 
 
 "While thrill'd each nerve to anger's sway, 
 I paus'd and coldly turn'd away. 
 Forbearance vain — a dastard blow 
 Awoke resentment's honest glow; 
 And, all on fire, my raging blood, 
 Was rous'd to passion's direst mood. 
 " 'Arm, Roderic, arm, I would not be 
 The murd'rer of a wretch like thee! 
 Eternity could ne'er efface 
 That damning blow's accurs'd disgrace; 
 And ere the sun, with rising beam, 
 Above yon saffron-clouds shall gleam, 
 Thy fall or mine shall end the fray, 
 And wipe the hateful stain away. 
 Nay, speak not, stir not, on thy life, 
 Thou canst not shun the fatal strife; 
 
133 
 
 Raise but thy voice— this blade is nigh, 
 To bid thee here unsuccour'd die.' 
 
 "We fought— he fell— the ebbing tide 
 Was issuing from his wounded side; 
 And, while above his form I bent, 
 Ere life's expiring lamp was spent, 
 'Osmond,' he cried, 'forgive the foe 
 Thy injur'd arm has laid so low. 
 And, oh! believe, though oft inclin'd, 
 To haughty rule my erring mind, 
 That fatal blow had been restrain'd 
 Had reason o'er my senses reign'd. 
 Forgive it, and may heaven's decree 
 A happier fate assign to thee; 
 And may my sire, whose tender care, 
 Was lavish'd on a worthless heir, 
 Ne'er mourn.' — He sunk, his fleeting breath 
 Was frozen by the ice of death. 
 
 "Alas! you start, your cheek is pale, 
 You shudder at the horrid tale; 
 Then, think what pangs his bosom tore, 
 Whose hands were stain'd with Roderic's gore! 
 
 N 
 
13 i 
 
 Still wretched memory seems to see 
 
 My victim's dying- agony; 
 
 Still feels the chilling clasp, that press'd 
 
 The hand, which pierc'd his youthful breast; 
 
 Marks his last look, still hears his groan; 
 
 Oh, rather had it been my own. 
 
 And, when the vital spirit fled, 
 
 I trembling knelt beside the dead, 
 
 Fond fancy mock'd my whirling brain, 
 
 With — 'still he liv'd — would breathe again.' 
 
 VIII. 
 
 "No language, lady, can relate 
 The horrors of that hour of fate! 
 No tear pursu'd its wonted course, 
 Remorse and anguish dried the source; 
 And, stretch'd by Roderic's breathless frame, 
 I wildly call'd upon his name, 
 And curs'd the day, when first I stray'd 
 From Uri's safe and peaceful shade. 
 
 "Morn dawn'd, and as her splendour broke, 
 The sense of threading danger woke; 
 
135 
 
 On ev'ry side with fears beset, 
 What forms of ill reflection met!— 
 How should I dare the sire to greet, 
 Whose son was bleeding- at my feet? 
 How hope the tort'ring name to shun, 
 — 'Assassin of that darling son?* 
 No mortal witness, left to tell 
 In equal fight young lloderic fell. 
 
 "Though death my anguish'd soul had sought, 
 A scaffold thrill'd on ev'ry thought; 
 And tracing on my tablet's page, 
 The tale of insult, blood, and rage, 
 I fled, with morning's dawning light, 
 The scene which mark'd the deeds of night. 
 
 "My fears were just, the voice of fame 
 O'erwhelm'd me with a load of shame; 
 And ev'ry art was u^'d to trace 
 The wretched murd'rer's lurking-place. 
 Vain search! — A hermit's weeds deform, 
 And hide from all my youthful form; 
 And shelter'd in a cavern wide, 
 By rolling Danube's flowing tide, 
 
136 
 
 I pass'd those hours (the erring- crowd 
 
 Believ'd to pious duties vow'd,) 
 
 In sighs, for days of pleasure o'er, 
 
 For peace, which time could ne'er restore, 
 
 And tears by sad repentance paid 
 
 To sooth young Roderic's ruthful shade. 
 
 "I will not now the tale repeat 
 (When forc'd to quit this wild retreat,) 
 Of care, and want, and peril rude, 
 Which still my wand'ring steps pursu'd; 
 Ambition's tow'ring visions fled, 
 And burthen'd with the blood I'd shed, 
 And stamp'd by rumour's blasting tongue 
 With nameless deeds of death and wrong; 
 At length, my wearied nature sunk, 
 By wasting, want, and sickness shrunk. 
 
 "Bold Manfred's aid the wretch preserv'd, 
 Restor'd to life, consol'd, and serv'd; 
 To ev'ry wound a balm supplied, 
 Reviv'd my hopes, and sooth'd my pride, 
 And bound me to the life he woo'd, 
 By ties of fervent gratitude. 
 
137 
 
 Yet many a struggling pang possessM 
 
 The heart which virtue once had bless'd; 
 
 And oft, before that moment came, 
 
 Which fix'd on me a bandit's name, 
 
 Distracted fancy sought in vain 
 
 From ruin's path escape to gain. 
 
 If wistful to the world I turn'd, 
 
 The scornful world the wand'rer spurn'd; 
 
 Denied the means of life, and threw 
 
 On ev'ry act the darkest hue; 
 
 While Manfred's hand was stretch'd to save, 
 
 A refuge to the exile gave, 
 
 And proflfer'd, for distress and care, 
 
 The lures of wealth and pleasure's snare. 
 
 "As wakes the lyre, at beauty's will, 
 Obedient to her magic skill, 
 So woke at kindness' gentle tone 
 A heart which feeling nam'd her own. 
 
 "My doom was seal'd, and dost thou blame? 
 Let Osmond still thy pity claim. 
 In ev'ry change of weal or woe, 
 Remorse and grief obscur'd my brow; 
 
 N 2 
 
138 
 
 And sick'ning at the scenes I view'd, 
 Midst men with guiltless blood embu'd, 
 I madly sought in every field, 
 The stroke which fate refus'd to yield. 
 
 IX. 
 
 "O'er days, whose records would appal, 
 
 Oblivion's shelt'ring veil must fall. 
 
 I will not wound Emilia's ear, 
 
 With tales her soul would shrink to hear; 
 
 Suffice, to me they pass'd the same, 
 
 By joy unbless'd, and curs'd with shame; 
 
 A tyrant's slave, whose jealous breast 
 
 By turns insulted and caress'd; 
 
 Yet, faithful to the vows I swore, 
 
 When grateful ties could bind no more. 
 
 "O'er many a land my steps had stray'd, 
 Ere Manfred sought thy native shade; 
 He saw thee in thy lonely bower, 
 More lovely than the loveliest flower, 
 And wak'ning passioa doom'd thy charms 
 To wither in an outlaw's arms. 
 
139 
 
 The tale he told, to fancy seem'd 
 
 Like those which young" romance had dream'd, 
 
 And stealing forth, at dawning day, 
 
 Lest Manfred's voice my course should stay, 
 
 I found thy haunt, where beauty bright, 
 
 As ever beam'd on mortal sight, 
 
 In pity's gentlest garb array'd, 
 
 Each better thought her vot'ry made. 
 
 Restrain'd by oaths I dar'd not break, 
 
 Of Manfred's bold design to speak; 
 
 I hop'd to rouse thy cautious fear, 
 
 By timely hint of danger near. 
 
 "Thou know'st the rest— but canst not guess 
 My bosom's tort'ring wretchedness, 
 When first thou mets't my shrinking view, 
 The captive of a ruffian crew. 
 E'en then I vow'd to die or save — 
 Vow'd ev'ry nameless pang to brave; 
 Ere doom'd, in hopeless woe to pine, 
 A bandit's hand be join'd to thine. 
 
 "The prayer, a contrite heart preferr'd. 
 All-pitying He-aven in mercy heard; 
 
140 
 
 And midst the crimes, whose heavy weight 
 
 Will press upon the hour of fate, 
 
 The blood of Manfred shall not rise, 
 
 Which spar'd an angel's sacrifice. 
 
 True, I have sinn'd, and seek not now 
 
 Stern censure's voice to disallow; 
 
 But when she brands, with many a deed, 
 
 Which he who sleepeth shall not heed, 
 
 Let gentle pity, blushing say 
 
 Rough was the Wand'rer's thorny way, 
 
 And soft the heart which passion tore, 
 
 And insult wrung in every pore. 
 
 E'en to the erring soul is giv'n 
 
 A hope, which points the path to heav'n; 
 
 And, when some lone and blessed night 
 
 Its glories meet my ravish'd sight, 
 
 I dare to think, that azure sea 
 
 May hold a place of rest for me." 
 
 He ceas'd— Emilia's glist'ning eye, 
 Declar'd her bosom's sympathy; 
 
141 
 
 Her voice of softest pity told, 
 Of happier days he might behold; 
 Nor knew she woke to keener pain, 
 The pang's which rag'd in ev'ry vein. 
 
 Morn broke— the lake is gleaming* bright, 
 Its liquid waves with crimson dight; 
 Glimmer, beneath the bright'ning day, 
 The copse-wood glen, and mountains grey; 
 And, quickly rang'd, young Osmond's train 
 Resume their purpos'd course again. 
 
 O'er many a scene their journey laid, 
 Where war's wide-rav'ning track display'd 
 The smoking cot, the turf, which bore 
 The trace of fire, or human gore; 
 The distant shot, the watchfire's light, 
 Red flashing through the gloom of night; 
 And straggling bands, whose banners show 
 A German brave, or Gallic foe. 
 These told Emilia's shrinking sense, 
 That dove-like peace was banish'd hence; 
 Reflections, too, on doubtful doom, 
 Have deepen'd Osmond's mental gloom; 
 
143 
 
 Their course through threat'ning dangers laid, 
 
 Where valour's self might fail to aid; 
 
 And should he fall, ere safe remov'd, 
 
 Her father's care Emilia prov'd; 
 
 What were her fate!— His shudd'ring view, 
 
 Shrunk at the scenes his fancy drew. 
 
 The eve had clos'd, in murky shades, 
 And darker seem'd the forest glades, 
 No star shot forth its trembling ray 
 To cheer the traveler's toilsome way; 
 Chill was the gale, and whirl'd around 
 The faded leaves which strew'd the ground: 
 At length, the tangled forest past, 
 Which bent beneath the rising blast, 
 They gain a vale, whose narrow bound 
 The beetling crags encircled round; 
 O'er whose dark brows the aspen sweeps, 
 And robe of mantling ivy creeps. 
 The glimm'ring light but faintly show'd 
 The outlaw's wild and dreary road; 
 And seems at ev'ry step to grow 
 The lengthening track, as slow they go. 
 
143 
 
 Still as the scene, which now appears 
 The signal for unwonted fears, 
 The pass is gain'd; but ere they clirab'd 
 The steep ascent, their steps must wind, 
 A shot is heard, re-echoed long", 
 The distant hills and rocks among*. 
 
 "Hush, on your lives! some foe is nigh, 
 We yet may scape inquiring eye. 
 The hour, the gloom, that hope befriends, 
 But still on you success depends. 
 No noise." As Osmond whisp'ring spoke, 
 Again the mimic thunder broke. 
 In vain they turn, resounding wide, 
 A volley pours from every side; 
 And screen'd by darkness' sable veil, 
 They see not those who thus assail. 
 
 XL 
 
 In danger calm, and undismay'd, 
 The chieftain's eye the scene survey'd; 
 At ev'ry point beset by foes, 
 No thought of flight his fate allows. 
 
144 - 
 
 Ne'er had he shrunk in former hour, 
 
 When battle's front was seen to lour; 
 
 And now, like war-horse in his pride, 
 
 Ranging the verdant pasture wide, 
 
 Who rouses at the trumpet-sound, 
 
 And neighs and courses round and round, 
 
 Awoke, at danger's threat'ning crest, 
 
 The spark which glow'd in Osmond's breast. 
 
 "Stand to your arms — This dastard crew 
 Their treacherous wile may sorely rue; 
 Enclos'd around we cannot fly, 
 Then tamely stand not thus to die; 
 That passage forc'd, escape secures, 
 And life and liberty are yours." 
 
 His dauntless tone, his proud command, 
 At once inspire and awe the band; 
 They form — and ere the fight begins, 
 Which dooms to death or freedom wins, 
 Young Osmond from his station flew, 
 Unknown, unmark'd, by mortal view: 
 Emilia's steps he gently led, 
 Where clumps of birch and alder spread 
 
14& 
 
 Along 1 the vale, might save her sight, 
 The horrors of th' approaching fight. 
 
 He spoke not; but had day reveal'd 
 That face the friendly gloom conceal'd, 
 The pangs, his changing features show, 
 Had bade the stream of pity flow; 
 And when, with cold and trembling clasp, 
 He press'd her hand in fervent grasp, 
 One tear upon it softly fell, 
 As low and sad, he said "farewell." — 
 
 More near the whizzing bullet flies, 
 And smoke obscures the murky skies; 
 And ere Emilia's lips can frame 
 A pray'r, or breathe forth Osmond's name, 
 First at his post the chief is seen, 
 With tranquil brow and steady mien. 
 
 The moon, which erst, with darken'd ray, 
 Had hid the dangers of the way, 
 Through parting clouds her radiance shows, 
 And gives to view their secret foes; 
 No more obscur'd, her silv'ry light 
 Gleams on the Gallic eagle bright, 
 
146 
 
 And shows the troop, in ambush laid, 
 Beneath the rocks and forest's shade; 
 Where, since the orb of day forsook 
 His golden seat, their stand they took, 
 Expectant of a squadron bold, 
 Whom now their cheated eyes behold; 
 Led by the outlaws' warlike guise, 
 To deem them martial enemies. 
 
 The scanty force they now survey, 
 Flatters them with an easy prey; 
 And while a chosen guard defend 
 The narrow pass, the band ascend; 
 The rest, whom rocks and woods conceal, 
 Their leaden death uninjur'd deal. 
 Full long, by pride and love impell'd, 
 Th' unequal fight young Osmond held; 
 Still to the charge his men he led, 
 And oft repuls'd, they never fled; 
 Yet ev'ry volley, pour'd around, 
 Has streatch'd a comrade on the ground. 
 Desp'rate of life, while life remains, 
 The fatal pass he still maintains; 
 
147 
 
 But gathering numbers round him close, 
 His less'ning force in vain oppose; 
 And while with agonizing sigh 
 He sees his bravest warriors die, 
 Emilia's woes his steps retain, 
 And lead him to the fight again. 
 
 XII. 
 
 Sudden, a shout, resounding wide, 
 
 Is echoed from the valley's side; 
 
 Rais'd by the band, who there sustain 
 
 The conflict in its narrow plain, 
 
 And bursting from the forest glade, 
 
 In glitt'ring arms and vestments ray'd, 
 
 With banners waving to the gale, 
 
 And silver'd by the moonbeam pale, 
 
 A martial column meets the view, 
 
 Who through the glen their course pursue. 
 
 Rous'd by the sight, the Gaul forsakes 
 His vanquish'd foe, and slowly takes 
 His passage from the mountain brow, 
 To meet th' advancing corps below 
 
148 
 
 Like wint'ry torrents' whelming rage, 
 Behold the hostile troops engage; 
 At once they close, defend, assail, 
 And battle darkens o'er the vale; 
 Whilst Osmond's train, who still survive, 
 Feel ev'ry fainting hope revive; 
 Resolv'd the dang'rous pass to keep, 
 And firmly bar the rugged steep. 
 
 Long was the fight, the carnage great, 
 And vict'ry long suspended sate; 
 As dubious which her wreath shall crown, 
 Who both might challenge just renown. 
 But wide and wider spreads the fray, 
 The Gallic host at length give way, 
 And scatter'd o'er the bloody field, 
 On ev'ry side their forces yield; 
 While those, who to the passage fly, 
 Beneath the bandit's weapons die. 
 
 "Cease from the fight," a voice exclaims, 
 "A conquer'd foe compassion claims." 
 And, springing from his foaming steed, 
 Grasp'd in his hand his valour's meed — 
 
149 
 
 A standard, rent and soil'd with gore, 
 
 And torn the plumes his helmet bore, 
 
 By Osmond's side a warrior stands, 
 
 Whose voice restrains the slaught'ring bands. 
 
 Oft in the fight, when raging high, 
 
 That stranger's form had fix'd his eye; 
 
 He saw him stem the battle's tide, 
 
 In all the youthful hero's pride, 
 
 With kindling eye, and cheek of flame, 
 
 And arm, which vanquish'd where he came. 
 
 But now, with combat faint and spent, 
 Upon his sword the warrior bent; 
 While Osmond paid, in tones as sweet 
 As e'er the raptur'd ear could greet, 
 The thanks his gen'rous nature ow'd, 
 For conquest gain'd, and life bestow'd. 
 Brief was his tale; this quickly said, 
 The wand'ring stranger's steps he led, 
 Where, hid within the mantling shade, 
 Through which the quiv'ring moonbeams play'd, 
 A lady's form his eyes descry, 
 Beneath the verdant canopy. 
 o 2 
 
150 
 
 The sound of feet, approaching near, 
 Awakes the trembling maiden's fear; 
 But Osmond's voice of conquest tells, 
 And all her rising terror quells; 
 And while, her fault'ring steps to guide, 
 He flings th' impeding boughs aside, 
 The graceful stranger lends his aid, 
 To lead her from the tangled glade. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 While o'er Emilia's features gleam 
 The moon's pale rays, with brighter beam, 
 She turns — when, falling from her head, 
 The veil her seraph form o'erspread, 
 That movement to his eyes displays 
 A face, which seems to mock his gaze. 
 
 "Emilia!" — Does some magic spell 
 Lurk in that name he knows so well? 
 Which now, as to her side he sprung", 
 Had trembled from the stranger's tongue. 
 The voice had shrunk each biighied sense, 
 Beneath its powerful influence; 
 
151 
 
 And pallid as the orb of night, 
 Shedding through cloister'd pains her light, 
 She sinks within the arms, which part, 
 To clasp her to a throbbing heart. 
 
 Young Osmond saw — a sudden thrill 
 Ran through Tiis veins with sick'ning chill, 
 Seem'd as the pulse of life had stood, 
 And stopp'd the current of his blood; 
 His quiv'ring lips refuse to speak, 
 The bloom forsakes his ashy cheek. 
 Him, roused Emilia's voice again, 
 To keener sense of mental pain; 
 And, rushing from the fatal spot, 
 A murmur at his hopeless lot 
 Burst from his heart, as wild he flew 
 The field of death again to view. 
 
 Few were the men who now remain 
 Of Osmond's brave and faithful train; 
 But undismay'd, they firmly swear, 
 In every scene his fate to share; 
 And while their mingling voices raise 
 Repeated plaudits to his praise, 
 
152 
 
 An equal claim their breasts allow, 
 To him who overcame the foe. 
 
 With firmer tread, and calmer look, 
 Their chief once more his path retook, 
 Intent, the happy pair to hail, 
 Who seek him through the bloody vale. 
 A thousand blushing- beauties grace 
 Emilia's soft and downcast face, 
 And bent to earth her humid glance, 
 She sees not Osmond's slow advance. 
 While Frederic's eye, whose beams reveal 
 All that the soul of joy can feel, 
 Beholds afar, and flies to greet, 
 And, sinking at the chieftain's feet, 
 
 "Noblest of men," he cries, "that narae^ 
 Henceforth, may Osmond justly claim. 
 The angel, thou wert doom'd to save, 
 Owes less to thee, the life you gave; 
 Than Walbergh — all that life endears — 
 Fond hope pursues, or love reveres. 
 And, though all eloquence were weak 
 My ardent gratitude to speak, 
 
153 
 
 Still shalt thou find, while life is mine, 
 My aid, and firmest friendship thine.'* 
 
 The gen'rous warmth his words express'd, 
 The fervent grasp his hand that press'd, 
 Seem'd, by some strong* and secret charm, 
 Young- Osmond's frozen heart to warm; 
 While, with emotion new and strange, 
 O'er Walbergh's form his glances range; 
 And, hate and jealousy at rest, 
 He press'd him to his manly breast, 
 And felt as if, by fate bereav'd, 
 
 And banish'd long from all his race, 
 That panting breast had now receiv'd 
 
 A long-lost brother's first embrace. 
 
 Such waking dreams, by feeling wove, 
 Did Osmond's kindling fancy prove. 
 Emilia mark'd the warm embrace, 
 With sweeter smile and bright'ning face, 
 And greets, with feeling's tend'rest tone, 
 The beating hearts she holds her own; 
 And, when they left the battle scene, 
 She rode the gallant youths between. 
 
154 
 
 Nor love's keen glance can aught espy, 
 To wake suspicion's misery; 
 Nor jealous passion sigh to find, 
 Another's influence o'er her mind; 
 To both, her soft attentions paid, 
 To both, her thanks for timely aid, 
 Till even Osmond's soul forgot 
 To muse on Fred'ric's happier lot. 
 
EMILIA OF LINDINAU; 
 
 OR 
 
 THE FIELD OF LEIPSIC. 
 CANTO IV. 
 
 «^l IGHT wanes, while many a tale they tell, 
 And when the beams cf morning fell, 
 Emilia view'd, with rapt surprise, 
 The scene which met her wond'ring eyes. 
 Stretch'd on the dark horizon's bound, 
 The tow'rs of Leipsic spread around; 
 And o'er her spires and casements play 
 The glories of the rising day; 
 While all th' extended plains below 
 The fearful pomp of battle show. 
 
156 
 
 Bright gleaming to the azure skies, 
 Ten thousand canvass dwellings rise; 
 And banners floating on the sight, 
 With crest and martial ensign dight, 
 To curious gaze the countries told, 
 Which sent to fight their warriors bold. 
 O'er field of gold, his outspread wings, 
 Germania's sable eagle flings; 
 And, Prussia, thine in azure flies, 
 As bright and pure as summer skies. 
 
 Stretch'd widely o'er the warlike plain, 
 Emilia sees a motley train, 
 In various garb and garments drest, 
 In surtout green, or crimson vest; 
 With helmet plum'd, or cap of fur, 
 And heel well arm'd with pointed spur, 
 As wield their wearer in the fight, 
 The musket, or the sabre bright: 
 Then paus'd the maiden to survey, 
 The hardy Cossacks sude array, 
 The giant-pike his hand sustains, 
 The proud, but docile steed he reins; 
 
157 
 
 Which seems with mortal rage to glow, 
 And bid defiance to his foe. 
 
 As nearer to the plain they drew, 
 Emilia's gaze imperfect grew; 
 She marks not those who, passing by, 
 Behold her form with curious eye; 
 And when the camp they slowly wind, 
 Midst martial ranks who throng behind, 
 In ev'ry face her sire appears, 
 His voice in ev'ry sound she hears; 
 Nor heeds she Fred'ric's anxious sigh. 
 Nor Osmond's thoughtful reverie, 
 Who, wrapp'd in melancholy mood, 
 Seem'd o'er some secret theme to brood. 
 
 Their steady course they forward guide, 
 Through all the pomp of martial pride; 
 When gay pavilions scatter'd round, 
 Wide stretching o'er th' uneven ground, 
 Their tops with waving streamers grac'd, 
 And num'rous guards about them plac'd, 
 To Walbergh's watchful glance disclose, 
 Where royalty and rank repose 
 
158 
 
 "That tent! contains thy sire. Yet stay — 
 One moment still thy joy delay. 
 The wild surprise thy sight would give, 
 The shock his anxious love receive, 
 'Twere rash and useless now to dare, 
 I fly thy filial fears to spare; 
 While Osmond shall thy safety guard, 
 A grateful smile his best reward." 
 
 II. 
 
 As Walbergh ceas'd, his steps he bent 
 Where rose the Baron's splendid tent; 
 And, sunk in pensive thought profound, 
 The lord of Lindinau he found, 
 Who greets, with kind and courteous phrase, 
 The hated youth of former days. 
 
 In manly accents frank and bold, 
 His purpos'd tale he briefly told; 
 Not much his own achievement swells, 
 But much and long on Osmond's dwells. 
 
 The Baron heard; and ere 'twas done, 
 Through wond'ring guards and soldiers sprung; 
 
159 
 
 And clasp'd, with transport fond and wild 
 As sire e'er felt, his rescued child. 
 His pencil, which despaired to trace 
 The anguish in a parent's face, 
 (In death his only offspring laid) 
 Has veil'd that face in friendly shade: 
 And rapture, when she meets the view 
 In form like this, may ask it too. 
 
 While all that gratitude inspires 
 The Baron's gen'rous bosom fires, 
 He hastes in Osmond's ear to pour 
 The joy whose tide is swelling o'er. 
 In Walbergh's tent, the youth reclin'd 
 To slumber's gentle sway resign'd, 
 He found, and softly near him stole, 
 While varying passions wildly roll, 
 As o'er him bent, in strange amaze, 
 The features met his earnest gaze; 
 That pallid brow, which seems to bear 
 The stamp of sorrow, toil, and care; 
 That cheek, which wan and faded now, 
 Had erst been flush'd with beauty's glow; 
 
160 
 
 To other days' remembrance led, 
 And woke the mem'ry of the dead. 
 
 The Baron's grasp his hand displac'd, 
 And Osmond's transient slumber chas'd; 
 And ere his lips excuse can frame, 
 Or ask, why there the stranger came? 
 "Forgive," brave Lindinau resum'd, 
 "That thus my careless foot presum'd. 
 Emilia's sire no pleasure knows, 
 Till gratitude her meed bestows 
 On him whose arm, by valour nerv'd, 
 Her life, her innocence preserv'd; 
 And sav'd her from a villain's power, 
 To bless these doating arms once more." 
 
 "Forbear! my lord," the chief replied, 
 His face with bright suffusion died; 
 "The happy fate, which doom'd to save 
 An angel from untimely grave, 
 Has only giv'n me to repay 
 The kindness of a former day. 
 Nor yet to me alone are due 
 Your thanks— Lord Walbergh claims them too; 
 
161 
 
 Who, found us press'd on ev'ry side, 
 The Gaul attacked and scatter'd wide; 
 And snatch'd your daughter from a foe, 
 More fierce than he my arm laid low.'* 
 
 III. 
 
 With glowing- cheek, as Osmond spoke, 
 A gentle hand his shoulder struck; 
 And Fred'ric's voice, in ardent tone, 
 Decrees the praise to him alone, 
 Whose aid the helpless maid had sav'd, 
 When Manfred's dagger o'er her wav'd. 
 
 Their generous strife the Baron view'd, 
 Whose eyes unheeded drops bedew 'd. 
 "Enough," he cries, "to both I owe 
 More thanks than words can e'er avow. 
 Then, Welbergh, from this hour forget 
 That e'er in hostile sort we met; 
 And Osmond, if my power can tend 
 Thy life or int'rest to befriend, 
 Thine be the claim — In such employ, 
 The favour mine, and mine the joy." 
 p £ 
 
162 
 
 Whilst transport spake in ev'ry look, 
 The proffer'd hand Lord Walbergh took. 
 And, bent in humblest, lowliest guise, 
 His rapt soul flashing from his eyes, 
 Young Osmond clasp'd the hand he held, 
 Emotion's rising tear repell'd, 
 And firmly said, "While life is dear, 
 And reason holds her empire here, 
 The lord of Lindinau shall share 
 My heart, and claim my fervent pray'r 
 But fate impels— I join the train 
 Who war on Leipsic's battle-plain; 
 Happy if he, who oft has led 
 A lawless train to scenes of dread, 
 Might gain one well-deserv'd applause, 
 In fighting for his country's cause. 
 Thy kindness let my band receive, 
 Should fate their leader's life bereave." 
 
 "Yet stay, the eve of battle near, 
 Emilia must not linger here; 
 Her sight, on ev'ry nerve, would jar 
 And daunt me in the field of war. 
 
163 
 
 To Leipsic then, at closing day, 
 My child must bend her pensive way; 
 And, Osmond, thou shalt be her guide, 
 And Walbergh's care a troop provide, 
 To guard her to a faithful friend, 
 Who there her safety will defend." 
 
 He spoke* and as the warriors pass'd, 
 On Osmond's face his glance was cast; 
 And deeply musing at the view, 
 With Ung'ring steps the chief withdrew. 
 
 IV. 
 
 The sun, his evening splendours shed, 
 Was sinking into ocean's bed; 
 When Lindinau, with throbbing breast, 
 And tearful eye, his daughter blest; 
 And while, in tender sorrow drown'd, 
 She fondly hung his neck around, 
 Young Osmond warns — "the escort stay,' 5 
 And weeping leads the maid away. 
 
 In sadness sunk, Emilia's mind 
 No theme for pleasing hope can find. 
 
164 
 
 Though much her young companions sought 
 
 To charm her melancholy thought; 
 
 And gay the scene in which she pass'd, 
 
 In warlike grandeur ne'er surpass'd; 
 
 And sweet the martial strains which leave 
 
 Their magic on the breeze of eve; 
 
 Alas! she sees, in ev'ry form, 
 
 The herald of approaching storm; 
 
 And ev'ry swelling note appears 
 
 To sound a requiem in her ears. 
 
 But when the hour of parting came, 
 She rous'd her courage' dying flame, 
 Call'd to her lip a sickly smile, 
 Her lover's sadness to beguile; 
 To each a snowy hand extends, 
 For each a silent prayer ascends; 
 While rais'd to heaven, serenely bright. 
 Her melting eyes of dewy light, 
 She softly sigh'd, "Oh now, adieu! 
 May hope and joy your steps pursue; 
 For you, my orisons shall rise, 
 And call an angel from the skies, 
 
165 
 
 In battle's dang'rous hour, to wait 
 And guard you from the stroke of fate, 
 And let Emilia's sire demand 
 The watchful eye and saving hand, 
 The vet'ran's course will still be found, 
 Where fiercest combat rages round." 
 
 "Farewell," and yet again, farewell, 
 From either chieftain murm'ring fell. 
 And while their parting steps remove 
 (Oh! sad the path from her we love,) 
 From Osmond's eye, Emilia caught 
 A glance with wildest passion fraught; 
 All, all his throbbing bosom feels, 
 That hopeless ling'ring glance reveals; 
 With strange expression now combin'd, 
 Mysterious, thrilling, undefin'd: 
 Till woke Emilia's gentle soul 
 To fear, and pity's joint control; 
 And sighing, as the chiefs retir'd, 
 She deems her midnight dream inspjr'd. 
 
166 
 V. 
 
 Sad pass'd her melancholy hours, 
 Beneath proud Leipsic's sheltering tow'rs; 
 Each vague report, each tale she hears, 
 Augments the woman's tender fears. 
 For now the thund'ring voice of war, 
 No more resounding from afar, 
 With louder din the ear appals, 
 And seems to threat the ancient walls? 
 While grows on ev'ry shrinking eye, 
 The various forms of misery, 
 Pale want, and grief's unheeded moan, 
 And soft compassion turn'd to stone; 
 And wan disease, with blasting breath, 
 Who spreads around contagious death; 
 And stern oppression's tyrant train, 
 Which drain the life from ev'ry vein; 
 And nearer draws th' eventful hour, 
 Whose doom dissolves a despot's power, 
 Or binds in chains of deeper woe 
 The arms that strike for freedom now. 
 
16? 
 
 Three times the sun his course pursu'd, 
 And still beheld the fight renew'd, 
 On Leipsic's plains; while, hov'ring nigh, 
 Dark fate still holds the doubtful die, 
 And views suspense with fearful mien, 
 The horrors of th' ensanguin'd scene. 
 In clouds of dust and vapour veil'd 
 Are hid th' assailing and assail'd; 
 While gleams upon the startled sight 
 The flash of cannon rising bright, 
 Whose long-deep thunders, gath'ring round, 
 Appear to shake the echoing ground. 
 
 The opposing foes, like granite rock, 
 Sustain the combat's awful shock; 
 Nor either yield, nor yet subdue, 
 And still the dubious fight renew; 
 The Gauls like men who fight for life, 
 Their foes like lions in the strife. 
 
 The orb of day his race has run, 
 And yet the field remains unwon; 
 And night, which fell in deepest gloom, 
 Dark, still, and lonely as the tomb, 
 
168 
 
 Seems in its fearful calm to speak 
 
 Of hov'ring storm that soon will break. 
 
 VI. 
 
 That day, whose mem'ry will descend 
 
 In glorious name till time shall end, 
 
 Which tore a tyrant's bonds in twain, 
 
 And brought fair freedom back again, 
 
 And crown'd, with wreaths entwin'd by fame, 
 
 Full many a proud and gallant name; 
 
 That day above th* horizon rose 
 
 And woke to strife the hostile foes; 
 
 And ere its rising glory shines, 
 
 Thunders along their mighty lines 
 
 The loud artill'ry's deep'ning sound, 
 
 And slaughter stalks his giant round, 
 
 Pass we the fury of the fray, 
 The horrors of that bloody day; 
 The deeds its glorious records hold, 
 Shall oft in future times be told. 
 And when their sons, some winter's night, 
 Shall ask the tale of Leipsic's fight, 
 
169 
 
 From those who erst its danger shar'd, 
 And fame — that danger's high reward — 
 The gallant Russ his voice shall raise, 
 To sound his Alexander's praise; 
 And Prussia's loyal sons proclaim 
 The glory of her Blucher's name; 
 Not one, but many a tale can tell, 
 How valiant heroes fought and fell. 
 
 Nor think that Walbergh shunn'd the strife, 
 Or Osmond fear'd to risk his life, 
 Or Lindinau his arm restrain'd, 
 When war and terror round him reign'd. 
 Ne'er could the lists of fame unfold, 
 More ready blades, or breasts more bold: 
 And gen'rous valour shall allow, 
 That bravely fought the Gallic foe; 
 Who long the desp'rate fight maintain'd, 
 And long their steady post retain'd 
 In vain. — By better cause inspir'd, 
 By honour, justice, freedom fir'd; 
 The brave Allies at length prevail, 
 And shouts of conquest load the gale. 
 
170 
 
 "They yield, they yield!" — their legions fly 
 Yet still the battle's loss deny; 
 And while with skilful art they keep 
 The secret of their swift retreat, 
 Wide havoc, blood, and rapine dark, 
 On ev'ry side their progress mark. 
 Night came, and Cynthia's crescent rose 
 O'er conquering hosts and vanquish'd foes ; 
 And cold and wan its lustre shed, 
 "Where lay the dying and the dead. 
 Ah! happy, who releas'd from pain, 
 Shall ne'er behold its beam again! 
 
 VII. 
 
 Dim seen beneath the trembling ray, 
 
 A form pursues its rapid way; 
 
 So slight, so pale its aspect fair, 
 
 It seems some spirit of the air, 
 
 By meek-eyed pity gently led 
 
 To sooth the pangs of grief and dread. 
 
 That form so fragile, faint, and pale, 
 
 Which seems to float upon the gale, 
 
171 
 
 Is woman, nerv'd by dauntless love, 
 The horrors of the field to prove. 
 Dire were the throes her bosom knew, 
 When fierce and dark the combat grew; 
 And rumour's voice her ear appals, 
 And tells her sire's and lover's falls! 
 No word from either calms her fears, 
 No bless'd assurance sooths or cheers; 
 And trembling wild, with doubt and dread, 
 When night her friendly mantle spread, 
 O'er scenes of death she fearless flew, 
 To prove her terrors false or true. 
 
 The tumult of the fight was o'er, 
 Yet faintly rose its distant roar; 
 And still at times is seen to gleam, 
 Remote and faint, a flashing beam, 
 Marking the dark horizon's bound, 
 As spreads the watchfire's light around. 
 
 Inspir'd by love, by hope impell'd, 
 Her forward course Emilia held; 
 Yet oft she paus'd, and shudder'd oft, 
 And shrunk her nature, mild and soft, 
 
178 
 
 At scenes where death his revels keeps, 
 His widest, richest harvests reaps; 
 And horror holds his direful reign, 
 In ev'ry form of fate and pain. 
 
 The wan and mellow ray, which shed 
 Its lustre o'er this field of dread, 
 Gleam'd on the wounded and the slain, 
 Who wildly strew the bloody plain. 
 On broken arms, and shatter'd blades, 
 And all the work of slaughter's aids, 
 And garments rent, and cast away, 
 And banners tatter'd in the fray, 
 In wild confusion scatter'd o'er, 
 Defil'd with dust and dy'd in gore. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 All that Emilia's eyes behold, 
 Might turn the blood of woman cold; 
 But nerv'd by passion's force, she speeds, 
 Nor fate, nor death, nor danger heeds; 
 Though hover o'er her sanguin'd way 
 The pinions of the birds of prey, 
 
173 
 
 And pours his note of death and fear 
 The boding screech-owl in her ear. 
 But vain the search the maid pursu'd, 
 Though oft in frantic hope renew'd; 
 O'er many a form her looks she bent, 
 To ev'ry sound attention lent; 
 The face her eager glance surveys, 
 A stranger's features still displays; 
 The voice her fond attention meets, 
 A stranger's accents still repeats. 
 
 Struck with despair, by toil subdu'd, 
 She paus'd amid this scene of blood, 
 Nor marks, obscur'd by night's dim shade, 
 A band whose martial garb betray'd, 
 Or friends, or enemies pursue, 
 O'er battle-field their progress too. 
 
 Sudden a voice, as sad she weeps, 
 Faint issuing from the mangled heaps, 
 In low and anguish'd murmurs came, 
 And seem'd to sigh Emilia's name; 
 While thrill'd her sad foreboding heart 
 Through every pulse wild horror's dart. 
 Q 2 
 
174 
 
 She flew, she sought! Midst crowds of dead, 
 Stretch'd on a comrade's corse his head, 
 Young" Osmond's bleeding- form she found, 
 Transfix'd with many a ghastly wound. 
 Nor hears he now the gentle voice, 
 That once had taught him to rejoice; 
 Nor sees the tears, whose drops efface 
 The blood-stain'd traces on his face; 
 Nor hand, which wipes the chilling dews 
 That o'er his brow their damps diffuse. 
 
 In mute distress she still surveys 
 The fallen chief, with tearful gaze; 
 While busy tort'ring fancy woke, 
 And now in boding accents spoke. 
 "My Father, Walbergh, where are they? 
 Have they too fall'n in battle fray?" — 
 Her senses sicken'd at the thought, 
 She sunk, nor saw the arms that caught. 
 But when the fresh reviving gale, 
 Which gently kiss'd her forehead pale, 
 Recalls suspended consciousness, 
 Her lover's voice, her sire's caress, 
 
175 
 
 To hope and joy again restore; 
 Sweet recompense for danger o'er. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Still Osmond lives— the fleeting breath 
 Seems hov'ring on the lip of death; 
 Nor yet enfeebled reason knew, 
 The mourning friends who round him drew; 
 Nor heard, as o'er his form they bent, 
 His faithful bandit's loud lament. 
 They bind his wounds with tender care, 
 To Walbergh's tent the youth they bear; 
 And following swift the valiant train, 
 Whose arms their bleeding chief sustain, 
 Emilia, by her father led, 
 Unseen her tears of pity shed; 
 While Fred'ric, close by Osmond's side, 
 His wounded friend desponding ey'd, 
 And deems proud victory's tow'ring brow 
 With cypress wreaths encircled now. 
 
 The tent is gain'd, each succour giv'n, 
 Could stay the fleeting soul from heav'm 
 
176 
 
 And Osmond's eyes unclose again 
 On all he loves, but loves in vain; 
 Who, leaning o'er his pillow stands, 
 With dewy cheek and folded hands, 
 While all her soft compassion feels 
 Her tender pitying glance reveals. 
 Though nature bled at ev'ry pore, 
 That glance had woke to life once more, 
 Brighten'd in Osmond's fading eye 
 A gleam of trembling ecstasy, 
 Which o'er his death-like features spread 
 Emotion's faint and transient red. 
 
 " 'Tis sweet," lie cry'd, to Walbergh nigh, 
 "On friendship's bosom thus to die! 
 Thus leaning on thy friendly breast, 
 With beauty's gentlest pity blest, 
 Death only opes a welcome way, 
 That leads to scenes of brighter day!" 
 
 "Talk not of death," a voice reply'd, 
 And Lindinau was at his side; 
 "Thou long shalt live to bless the light, 
 Which dawn'd on Leipsic's glorious fight. 
 
177 
 
 I saw thee, boy! thy stand maintain, 
 Like lion on that bloody plain; 
 While, seem'd a more than mortal fire 
 To nerve thy arm— thy breast inspire; 
 And when I view'd thy valour, sigh'd 
 That niggard fate a son deny'd." 
 "'Tis vain — in ev'ry pulse I feel 
 The ebbing tide of life congeal. 
 Oft have I seen the tyrant's brow, 
 Nor think I fear to face him now. 
 What recks it, that with breast condemn'd, 
 A name despis'd, disgrac'd, contemn'd, 
 I quit this toilsome scene below, 
 Ere mark'd by deeper crimes and woe. 
 'Tis but to die! — that forfeit paid 
 To justice due, and long delayM, 
 Stern virtue may not blush to shed 
 A tear upon my silent bed. 
 And when consenting fate shall strew 
 Your paths with flowers of fairest hue, 
 And love and pleasure grant to sip, 
 Their purest bliss from woman's lip, 
 
178 
 
 Let mem'ry then my form restore, 
 Heave one kind sigh — I ask no more; 
 Save, that Emilia will receive 
 The all, which Osmond now can give." 
 
 X. 
 
 He spoke — and from his bosom drew 
 A slender chain of golden hue, 
 Enrich'd with many a brilliant bright, 
 That glitter'd to the gazer's sight. 
 The Baron saw — each sinew shook, 
 "Wild horror glar'd in ev'ry look. 
 
 "Speak, speak, whose hand that bauble gave? 
 Speak, as thou hop'st thy soul to save." 
 
 "My mother's! in her last farewell." 
 From Osmond faint and trembling fell. 
 
 "Her name?" — "Paulina." — While he spoke, 
 A thousand varying passions woke, 
 In him whom fond affection warms, 
 As wild he caught him in his arms. 
 
 "What fiend my senseless mind beguil'd? 
 Yes, yes, thou art Paulina's child! 
 
179 
 
 That eye, that cheek, her form renew, 
 And bring my sister to my view. 
 Oh! victim of a fate severe! 
 Why did I live this tale to hear? 
 To see thee thus — yet live to prove 
 A father's kindest tend'rest love. 
 To meet a brother's fond embrace, 
 Whose virtues might redeem his race; 
 Behold him there!" — With anguish wrung, 
 To Osmond's side young Walbergh sprung; 
 In mutual clasp their arms entwine, 
 In mutual stream their tears combine. 
 Thrill'd to affection's fervent clasp, 
 The breast which heav'd with dying gasp, 
 Like lamp whose parting beams delay, 
 To give one bright expiring ray. 
 *Tis past! The glow which pleasure shed, 
 From Osmond's pallid face is fled; 
 The fleeting pulse forgets to beat, 
 Or faint and fainter throbs repeat; 
 Yet passion's unextinguish'd gleam 
 Still from his eye is seen to beam, 
 
180 
 
 Which on Emilia's features throws 
 A ling'ring gaze, as loath to close; 
 As loath that rapture to forego, 
 His all of life— his heav'n below. 
 
 XL 
 
 Nor word, nor sigh a passage found, 
 Hush'd as the night which reign'd around, 
 When Osmond's voice the srience broke; 
 In accents low and weak he spoke. 
 
 "Emilia!" by his couch she stands; 
 Gently he press'd her trembling hands, 
 In Walbergh's plac'd— "By her, whose name 
 Shall pity's tend'rest feelings claim; 
 By him, whose early scenes of woe 
 Thy kindness cannot soften now; 
 Oh, Lindinau! one boon t crave, 
 To sooth my passage to the grave: 
 They love — let Hymen's bonds entwine 
 The hearts whose bliss shall heighten thine; 
 And draw oblivion's darkest shade 
 O'er wounds bv crime and hatred made; 
 
181 
 
 Oh grant but this, and death will know 
 More joy than life could e'er bestow." 
 
 Regret, remorse, and struggling- shame, 
 O'er ev'ry varying feature came, 
 As heard, with agitated breast, 
 Bold Lindinau, the youth's request, 
 And view'd that face, whose every shade 
 A sister's lineaments display'd — 
 Beheld in Walbergh's glist'ning eye 
 Fond love, distress, anxiety; 
 And saw in ev'ry tear she shed, 
 In ev'ry blush her cheek o'erspread, 
 The hopes, the fears, which unexpress'd, 
 Emilia's throbbing heart confess'd. — 
 
 Revenge, and pride, and hate give way, 
 To love and pity's gentle sway. 
 
 "Osmond!" he cries, "'tis thine to gain 
 What other voice would ne'er obtain; 
 In dust, my arm thy father laid, 
 For broken vows and faith betray'd; 
 This expiation now be mine, 
 Our children's plighted hands to join. 
 
 R 
 
182 
 
 And thou, sweet Shade! if hov'ring near, 
 Thou seest affection's bitter tear; 
 Oh! pardon, that I thus efface 
 The hatred vow'd to Walbergh's race. 
 He, who decreed thy early doom, 
 Now shares with thee a silent tomb; 
 And he, thy Osmond, only lives 
 Till Lindinau his sire forgives." 
 
 XII. 
 
 He ceas'd, and join'd their hands, and bless'd, 
 And rais'd the lovers to his breast, 
 And sighing-, turn'd away the veil 
 The pangs his soften'd sdul assail. 
 
 Stole o'er die dying Osmond's face, 
 A smile of melancholy grace; 
 Again, with kind regard he view'd, 
 Young Walbergh's lord in grief subdu'd; 
 Again, upon Emilia cast 
 One long, long look — it was his last! 
 
 Clos'd are those eyes in endless night, 
 Which drank from her's supreme delight 
 
182 
 
 The hand she holds, with deadly chill 
 Seem'd on each startled sense to thrill; 
 That trembling awe, that nameless dread, 
 He feels who first beholds the dead. 
 
 Fair mourner! wherefore dost thou gaze 
 On that wan form, in mute amaze? 
 It is not he, whose radiant eye 
 With hair-bells' brightest tints might vie, 
 Whose cheek with health's fresh blush was dy'd, 
 Whose figure tower'd in youthful pride; 
 Nought of these graces canst thou trace 
 In that shrunk form, and pallid face; 
 Remembrance only may retain, 
 What thou shalt ne'er behold again. 
 
 Young Osmond rests, not in the dome 
 Which rises on his father's tomb, 
 Where Walbergh's ancient barons lie, 
 In martial state and pageantry: 
 But where they made the chieftain's grave, 
 The willow's trembling branches wave, 
 And Philomel, the boughs among, 
 Sings to the moon her plaintive song. 
 
184 
 
 And many fragrant wreaths entwine 
 The urn which crowns the simple shrine; 
 While oft at evening's tender hour, 
 Young beauty sat beneath the bower, 
 And orisons there softly paid 
 In requiem to his honour'd shade. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 The battle lost, the despot fled, 
 And sought to hide his miscreant head 
 In safe retreat; but not the Rhine, 
 Though woods and mountains too combine 
 To check pursuit, a shelter lends, 
 When heaven its vengeance due intends. 
 
 By valiant chiefs the conquerors led, 
 In firm array their myriads spread; 
 Like mountain-torrent swell'cl with rain, 
 That pours a deluge o'er the plain, 
 Resistless, rapid, nought its force 
 Withstands, or serves to stay its course; 
 In such career advanc'd th' Allies, 
 The Gaul no sooner sees than flies; 
 
185 
 
 And as the foes his steps pursue, 
 Retreats in terror at their view. 
 
 In vain, dark Rhine! thy barrier-tide 
 Rolls on in deep majestic pride; 
 The stream is cross'd, and Belgium won, 
 And closely press'd, proud Gallia, soon, 
 Beholds with fancy's fearful eye 
 Jn smoking- heaps her Paris lie. 
 
 Yes, pride of Gallia! thou must burn 
 For Moscow's flames! — 'Tis now thy turn 
 To see the dire effects of war; 
 Of war not felt, when heard afar. 
 Thy festal domes, where pleasure's train 
 Pursue their pastimes light and vain; 
 Thy temples vast, whose choral song 
 Echoes the vaulted aisles along; 
 Thy palaces, thy lofty towers, 
 Where learning piles his ample stores, 
 Where taste and elegance resort, 
 And fashion holds her polish'd court; 
 Which art and genius' glowing hand 
 Have deck'd as if by magic wand, 
 li 2 
 
186 
 
 Must all, a prey to ruthless flame, 
 Leave nothing- but an empty name. 
 
 What sound of death assails my ear? 
 The Cossacs war-whoop do I hear? 
 The conqueror comes in fierce array, 
 His bosom burns to seize his prey; 
 Thy rank misdeeds to expiate, 
 By fire and sword, poor Moscow's fate! 
 What can revoke thy righteous doom? 
 What save thee from a burning- tomb? 
 
 XIV. 
 
 First-born of Heaven, by Heaven design'd 
 To sooth the woes of humankind; 
 Celestial Mercy! at thy glance 
 The Conqueror check'd his fierce advance; 
 With eyes of soft compassion view'd 
 The prostrate foe, his arms subdu'd, 
 And nobly crown 'd his warlike deeds, 
 With one that all his fame exceeds. 
 
 Proud Paris! thou art sav'd; on thee 
 Depends thy own security; 
 
187 
 
 On thee, for whom the conqueror's voice 
 Rejects the object of thy choice — 
 A tyrant, whose despotic sway 
 To war and slaughter led the way. 
 The king-, who long in exile driven 
 From land to land, the care of Heaven, 
 Thy ancient glory shall restore, 
 And grace the sceptre which of yore 
 His fathers held, when Gallia's fame 
 United with her Henry's name. 
 
 'Tis done; on Elba's lonely shores 
 A despot o'er his fate deplores; 
 Or plans, in dark vindictive mood, 
 Some future scheme of art and blood. 
 
 Now borne from Britain's shelt'ring strand. 
 A monarch hails his native land: 
 On every side his raptur'd eye 
 Beholds the snowy banner fly; 
 Hears with delight the voice which greets, 
 The gaze of cordial welcome meets; 
 And though the thought of former woe 
 May bid the tear in secret flow, 
 
188 
 
 Hope whispers that his future day 
 Shall shine with joy's unclouded ray. 
 
 Pass we the tale of splendour bright, 
 Of courtly show and mimic fight; 
 Some bard, who saw the rich display 
 Of pomp and arms, may tune the lay; 
 But let us trace the peaceful scene, 
 When, Lindinau! thy wild woods green 
 Beheld again their mistress fair, 
 And hail'd proud Walbergh's gallant heir. 
 
 Again he treads with spirits light 
 The scenes which charm'd his infant sight, 
 And deck'd by spring with many a flower 
 Emilia's sweet and favourite bower, 
 Where lavishly the goddess throws, 
 The earliest buds which crown her brows. 
 
 XV. 
 
 Now war has ceas'd; and, discord o'er, 
 Within his ancient hall once more, 
 The Baron lists his daughter's lay, 
 As o'er the strings her fingers stray, 
 
189 
 
 And blesses oft the gallant hand 
 That sav'd her from a ruffian band. 
 Nor sadden now the veteran's breast, 
 His country's wrongs by chains oppress'd; 
 Bursts from her bonds, on every side 
 He hears her praises echoed wide; 
 And glows with all the patriot's flame, 
 Whene'er he hails Germania's name. 
 
 Now dawns the day ordain'd to prove 
 The paradise of faithful love, 
 To crown with pure unsullied joy, 
 Nor time shall chill, nor fate destroy, 
 A tender pair, and wipe away 
 All records of a former day. 
 In splendour's gorgeous robes array'd, 
 Her bridal train attend the maid, 
 Who, blushing as the morning sky, 
 Timid as love's first whisper'd sigh, 
 Bends at that altar's marble base 
 Which heard the vows of all her race; 
 While wav'd above her drooping head, 
 With crest and gallant ensigns spread, 
 
190 
 
 The banners which her fathers bore 
 From many a field in times of yore. 
 
 But sees not Walbergh's kindling eye, 
 The signs of ancient chivalry; 
 Nor priests, with heaven-inspiring look, 
 Whose hand sustains the holy book; 
 Nor smiling crowd that stand beside; 
 Nor Lindinau in lordly pride: 
 Her he beholds alone, whose face 
 Is bent to earth with modest grace; 
 Hears but that voice, whose melting tone 
 Has vow'd her faith and hand his own. 
 
 In Lindinau, that live-long day, 
 The bells ring round their merry lay; 
 Mirth at the festive board presides, 
 And laughter shakes his jolly sides; 
 And youth, and love, and joy unite, 
 To crown with sports the happy night. 
 
 The hall, where erst the Barons bold 
 Were wont their banquet's state to hold, 
 While flash'd a thousand torches' light, 
 On helm, and mail, and cuirass bright, 
 
191 
 
 And gave to view the minstrel train, 
 
 Who woke the harp to music's strain; 
 
 That Gothic hall now meets the gaze, 
 
 Illum'd by waxen tapers' blaze. 
 
 No form of war the eye appals, 
 
 Save those which grace its lofty walls; 
 
 But beauty shone beneath the ray, 
 
 In health and guileless pleasure gay; 
 
 And friendship blithe the banquet crown'd, 
 
 And pass'd the social bowl around. 
 
 XYI. 
 
 "And did not music's sweetest powers 
 Enliven there the festive hours?" 
 
 No crowd of minstrels now are seen, 
 "With golden chains and mantles green; 
 But still one son of song was found, 
 Thy harp, O Lindinau! to sound: 
 That harp, which oft in former days 
 Had proudly swell'd the hero's praise; 
 Or warbled forth, in softer tone, 
 Fond love's complaint, or sorrow's moan. 
 
192 
 
 Age now the hoary harper's head 
 With scanty silvery tresses spread, 
 And quench'd the spirit of his eye, 
 And bow'd his towering" dignity. 
 But still at times the poet's fire 
 Seem'd all his bosom to inspire, 
 And gave in dark prophetic strain, 
 To sing of future joy or pain. 
 
 As o'er the dulcet harp he leant, 
 To earth his rolling eye is bent, 
 As thence the tuneful minstrel caught 
 The inspiration of his thought; 
 Then, as he woke the magic strings, 
 The melting tale of love he sings; 
 Soft as the notes, by zephyr borne, 
 From shepherd's pipe at early morn, 
 Breath'd the sweet lay, and beauty's smile 
 Brighten'd and glow'd her cheek the while; 
 And as she bent the tale to hear, 
 The rose was moisten'd with a tear. 
 . Sudden o'er all the minstiel's frame 
 A scarce distinguisli'd trembling came, 
 
193 
 
 Flash'd his dim eye, upon his cheek 
 
 Deepen'd a faint and hectic streak, 
 
 And seem'd some spirit strange oppress'd 
 
 His agitated heaving breast. 
 
 Again with finger, loud and strong, 
 
 He swept the sounding strings along, 
 
 And rais'd his tuneful voice to bolder song. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 "Oh, harp of Lindinau! no more 
 
 Thy strains may tell of lady's love; 
 The peaceful theme which charm'd before, 
 
 The minstrel's soul no more can move. 
 Full oft, when love and youth combin'd 
 
 To wake the wild poetic thrill, 
 Thy strings with woven flowers entwin'd, 
 
 Have trembled to their master's skill. 
 And now, though age has chill'd my breast, 
 
 And cramp'd the hand which touch'd the lyre, 
 That hand, ere yet thy warblings rest, 
 
 Shall bid one parting lay respire. 
 
194 
 
 No tale of love, nor beauty bright, 
 
 Inspires the minstrel's raptur'd dream; 
 I see afar the coming fight, 
 
 And war and arms awake the theme. 
 I see, from yonder iron isle 
 
 Which rises midst the dark blue sea, 
 A tyrant veil, with artful wile 
 
 And show of graceful courtesy, 
 His black designs; and o'er the wave 
 
 I see his flitting sails advance; 
 And where the sparkling billows lave, 
 
 Around their prows the moonbeam dance; 
 Intent o'er Gallia's flow'ry shore, 
 Wild horror, blood, and woe to pour. 
 
 "Oh, Gallia! hide thy humbled head, 
 With mourning weeds thy form o'erspread; 
 Blush, that a son of thine should raise 
 His voice to sound a traitor's praise; 
 Should greet, with amity's embrace, 
 The terror of the human race; 
 Ordain'd to scourge, in modern times, 
 A guilty nation's ancient crimes. 
 
195 
 
 Yes, virtue bows in evil hour 
 Beneath a vengeful despot's power; 
 Rebellion lifts her crest on high, 
 O'er fallen worth and royalty, 
 Still doom'd in foreign climes to meet, 
 From foreign hands a safe retreat. 
 Those lilies, which in days of yore 
 To other realms dominion bore, 
 Deserted now and prostrate laid, 
 Are trampled 'neath their native shade. 
 
 "And wilt thou, Europe! reckless view 
 A tyrant's power these scenes renew? 
 Wilt thou behold those prospects fled, 
 For which thy warriors fought and bled; 
 His broken faith, thy toils misplac'd, 
 A monarch wrong'd, a throne disgrac'd? 
 No, from thy furthest bounds afar, 
 I hear the distant din of war. 
 
 "From the Don, from the Danube, thy legions advance, 
 Hark! the trumpet's loud clang gives the signal — To 
 France! 
 
196 
 
 St. Louis's standard floats bright on the gale, 
 And loyalty smiles the white banner to hail; 
 The Lion of Albion again is display'd, 
 And the sons of misfortune shall fly to its shade. 
 
 "Yes, Albion! on thee the fond hope must rely, 
 Thou friend of the wretched, thou faithful all}'! 
 When freedom was banish'd, enslaved, or oppress'd, 
 Thy isle was the refuge which shelter'd her breast. 
 On the steep chalky cliffs which encircle thy sea, 
 She planted her standard and bade us be free; 
 And when rous'd by her summons, the call we obey'd, 
 Thy arm, gallant Albion, was ready to aid; 
 While thy white spreading sails proudly dash'd through 
 
 the wave, 
 And thy sons rush'd to fight in the strife of the brave. 
 
 "And now wilt thou fail usf abandon us now — 
 When the laurels of victory droop on her brow; 
 When she sighs that the deeds which her children have 
 
 done, 
 The blood they have shed and the fields they have won, 
 Have vainly been lavish'd those rights to maintain, 
 Which a merciless tyrant endangers again? 
 
197 
 
 "No, Albion, thy succour shall ever extend, 
 The wretched to aid, the oppress'd to defend; 
 And while liberty reigns o'er thy wave-circled isle, 
 While she blesses thy sons who exult in her smile, 
 For the Freedom of Europe thy spirit shall rise, 
 And the proud lion rampant be spread to the skies!* 
 
 "Even now in the future a field I behold, 
 Which shall rival the fame of the brightest of old; 
 Where, Albion! the best of thy blood shall be shed, 
 And laurels immortal encircle thy head. 
 
 * This poem, which was finished and forwarded to the Publishers in the 
 month of May last, originally terminated here, with the two last lines that 
 still form the conclusion. The extraordinary events that have so rapidly 
 occurred, and the solicitations of her friends, induced the author to in- 
 sert the additional lines, which it is hoped will not be thought irrelevant 
 to the design of this poem. It is not intended to encroach on a subject 
 which already employs a much abler pen; but while the "Field of Water" 
 loo" increases,as without doubt it will, the well founded reputation of its 
 celebrated author, let it not be forgotten, that as the "Field of Leipsic' v 
 was written some time prior to that glorious event, the design could not 
 be borrowed from the form er. The reader also may be assured, that notb„ 
 ing but unforeseen delays in the publication could have prevented iti ap" 
 pearing long ere this before the Public. 
 Hereford, Oct. 12, 1815. 
 S 2 
 
198 
 
 Hark! hark! the loud din of the battle draws near, 
 The shouts of the vanquish'd and victor I hear. 
 What firm-rooted column sustains the rude shock, 
 Unbroken, unmov'd as the wave-beaten rock? 
 'Tis thine, Queen of Nations! undaunted and true, 
 From the plume-crested cap to the bonnet of blue; 
 Though death like a giant, with fear spreading stride, 
 Stalks o'er the vast field his red arrows have dy'd; 
 Though life's crimson torrent in streams floats around, 
 And wounded and dying encumber the ground, 
 Thy squadrons unconquer'd the foe scatter wide, 
 And no more the fierce eagle shall soar in his pride. 
 
 "But whence that sad sigh? like the spirit of night, 
 What form rises mournful and wan on my sight? 
 Her cheek the pale hue of despondency wears, 
 And faded and dim her blue eye rolls in tears. 
 Oh weep not, sweet maid! nor on Waterloo's plain 
 Lament o'er thy lover who rests with the slain; 
 Weep not, though the soldier was lovely and brave, 
 And dear to thy breast which now mourns o'er his grave; 
 Tho' the dreams which gay youth and affection combin'd, 
 Bade thee hope on that bosom a pillow to find, 
 
199 
 
 Which bloody and cold on a far-distant shore, 
 
 Shall thrill to the voice of the charmer no more. 
 
 Oh! think that the field which gave birth to thy woes, 
 
 Eternal renown on thy country bestows; 
 
 That Europe's salvation will spring from the day 
 
 Which tore the fond hope of thy bosom away. 
 
 Though lowly the bed of thy soldier's repose, 
 
 'Tis the couch of the brave; and the tear-drop, that 
 
 flows 
 From the eyes of a nation, shall hallow the spot, 
 When the tombs of the proud and the great are for- 
 got. 
 "And thou, gallant Chief of the Emerald Isle! 
 At whose triumph green Erin exulting shall smile, 
 'Tis needless the tale of thy glory to tell, 
 In the bosoms of millions the record shall dwell. 
 Long, long may the brow of the Hero display, 
 The dearly-earn'd laurels of Waterloo's day; 
 And when age o'er the Vet'ran its honours shall shed, 
 When the sunshine of life from the prospect is fled, 
 Still green and unfading (hose laurels will bloom, 
 And enliven the path which conducts to the tomb. 
 
mo 
 
 Though transient the fame which the minstrel can give, 
 Yet His name in the annals of Britain shall live, 
 Till her deep-rooted cliffs from their station are hurl'cfc, 
 And the genius of ruin presides o'er the world." 
 
 THE END, 
 
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